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HAWTHORNE 



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BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK : 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET 

Clje afttbertftOc Camforitfse 

1882 


x 


Copyright, 1850, 1851, and 1853, 
By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

Copyright, 1868, 

By SOPHIA HAWTHORNE. 


Copyright, 1878, 1879, and 1881, 

By ROSE HAWTHORNE LATIIROP. 

Copyright, 1882, 

By HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & CO. 


All rights reserved. 


The Riverside Press , Cambridge : 
Electrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Co. 


CONTENTS 


— • — 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 
Little Daffydowndilly . 

Little Annie’s Ramble 

Benjamin West 

Sir Isaac Newton .... 
The Golden Touch .... 
The Wives of the Dead . 

Passages from Note-Books . 

An Autumn Walk 
A Stroll upon the Beach 
A Visit to some Lime-Kilns 
Deserted Houses .... 
Watching a Squirrel . 

A Navy in the Frog-Pond 
A Walk with Children in the Woods 


- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Portrait op Nathaniel Hawthorne Frontispiece. 

“ The road passed by a field where some haymakers were at 
work” 20 

“ Stop, stop, town crier ! The lost is found ” . . . 31 

Sir Isaac Newton and the apple 44 

“ What should he see but the figure of a stranger ” . . 55 

“ The rainy twilight of an Autumn day ” . . . .73 

“ Bright sunshine and autumnal warmth ” ... 83 

“ In some places your footstep is perfectly imprinted ” . .90 



Hawthorne’s Early Home in Herbert Street. 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


The old town of Salem, in Massachusetts, was once 
a famous sea-port, and ships sailed out of its harbor to 
the ends of the world. In the East Indies so many 
merchant vessels bore the word Salem on the stern that 
people there supposed that to be the name of some pow- 
erful country, and Mass., which was sometimes added, 
to be the name of a village in Salem. As Boston and 
New York grew more important, they drew away trade 
from the smaller towns, and Salem became less busy. 
It still has wharves, and large, roomy houses where its 
rich merchants lived, and shows in many streets the 
signs of its old prosperity ; but one living in Salem is 
constantly reminded how famous the old town once was 
rather than how busy it now is. 

In an old house in Union Street, in Salem, was born 
Nathaniel Hawthorne, July 4, 1804, and in one, near 
by, in Herbert Street, he spent his boyhood. The town 
had already begun to decline when he was a boy there ; 
and as he walked about the streets and listened to the 


6 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


talk of people, he seemed always to be in the company 
of old men, hearing about old times, and watching the 
signs of decay. There were strange stories of what 
had happened in former days, especially since Salem 
was the place where, more than a hundred years be- 
fore, there had been a terrible outbreak of superstition ; 
men and women had been charged with witchcraft, and 
had been put to death for it. One of Hawthorne’s own 
ancestors had been a judge who had condemned inno- 
cent people to death because he believed them guilty of 
witchcraft. 

His father died before he could know him. He was a 
sea-captain, and so was his father before him, who was a 
privateersman in the Revolutionary War. When Haw- 
thorne was a boy of fourteen, he went with his mother 
to live for a year in a lonely place in Maine. He spent 
much of his time by himself in the open air. In sum- 
mer he took his gun and roamed for hours through the 
woods. On winter nights he would skate by moonlight, 
all alone, upon the ice of Sebago Pond, and sometimes 
rest till morning by a great camp-fire which he built 
before a log-cabin. He led a strange, solitary life, and 
formed habits of being by himself which he never shook 
off ; but he learned also to observe the world about him, 
and his eye and ear were trained like those of an Indian. 

He went back to Salem at the end of the year, and, 
when he was ready, went to Bowdoin College, in Maine, 
where he was a classmate of the poet Longfellow. An- 
other of his college friends was Franklin Pierce, who 
afterward was President of the United States. Haw- 
thorne had already begun to show that he was to be a 
writer. “ While we were lads together at a country col- 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


7 


lege,” he wrote once to his friend, Horatio Bridge, an 
officer in the navy, “ gathering blueberries in study 
hours, under those tall academic pines ; or watching the 
great logs, as they tumbled along the current of the An- 
droscoggin ; or shooting pigeons and gray squirrels in 
the woods ; or bat-fowling in the summer twilight ; or 
catching trout in that shadowy little stream, which, I 
suppose, is still wandering riverward through the forest, 
though you and I will never cast a line in it again, — 
two idle lads, in short (as we need not fear to acknowl- 
edge now), doing a hundred things that the faculty 
never heard of, or else it had been the worse for us, — 
still it was your prognostic of your friend’s destiny that 
he was to be a writer of fiction.” 

After he graduated, in 1825, Hawthorne went hack 
to Salem, and lived there, with only occasional excur- 
sions into the country, until 1838. He took long walks 
in the fields, along the country roads and the neighbor- 
ing sea-beaches, but much of the time was spent in an 
upper chamber in the old Herbert Street house. Here 
he read many books, and sat for hours pondering and 
writing. Many of the tales which he wrote he de- 
stroyed, but one novel called Fanshawe was published ; 
it was quite unlike what he afterward wrote, and was 
so little regarded that very few copies could be traced 
when, years afterward, the interest which people had 
come to have in everything of Hawthorne’s led to a 
reprint of it. He sent little stories to magazines, and 
here and there a reader was found who wondered at 
their strange beauty, but most passed them by. At 
length, through the help of his old friend Bridge, some 
of the stories were collected and published in a volume 


8 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


called Twice-Told Tales. It is from that volume that 
Little Annie’s Ramble is taken. It is pleasant to no- 
tice that Longfellow was one of the first to welcome 
the book, and to give it hearty praise in an article in 
the North American Review. Hawthorne wrote also 
at this time some short sketches of biography and his- 
tory, and two of these, Benjamin West and Sir Isaac 
Newton , are printed in this volume. 

While leading this quiet, uneventful life, he began to 
keep note-books, in which he recorded what he saw on 
his walks, what he heard other people say, and thoughts 
and fancies which came to him through the day and 
night. He did not make these note-books for publica- 
tion ; they held the rough material out of which he 
made books and stories, but they had also much that 
never reappeared in his writings. He jotted down what 
he said for his own use and pleasure, and thus some- 
times he did not make complete sentences. He was like 
an artist who takes his pencil and draws a few lines, by 
which to remember something which he sees, and after- 
wards paints a full and careful picture from such notes. 
The artist’s studies are very interesting to all who like 
to see how a picture grows, and often the sketch itself 
is very beautiful, for one who paints well can scarcely 
help putting beauty into his simplest outlines ; then, by 
drawing constantly, he acquires the power of putting 
down what he sees in few but vivid lines. After Haw- 
thorne’s death, selections from his Note-Books were pub- 
lished, and a few pages are given in this book. One 
may learn by them how to write carefully, just as one 
may learn to draw by studying an artist’s sketches. 

These thirteen years meant much to Hawthorne. He 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


9 


was learning to write ; he was steadily using the power 
which had been given him, and it was growing stronger 
every year. Yet they were lonely and often discourag- 
ing years to him. He could earn but little by his pen. 
Very few people seemed to care for what he did, and 
he loved his own work so well that he longed to have 
others care for it and for him. He went back afterward 
to the chamber where he had read and written and 
waited, and as he sat in it again he took out his note- 
book, and wrote : “ If ever I should have a biographer 
he ought to make great mention of this chamber in my 
memoirs, because so much of my lonely youth was wasted 
here, and here my mind and character were formed ; 
and here I have been glad and hopeful, and here I have 
been despondent. And here I sat a long, long time, 
waiting patiently for the world to know me, and some- 
times wondering why it did not know me sooner, or 
whether it would ever know me at all, — at least, till I 
were in my grave. . . . By and by the world found me 
out in my lonely chamber, and called me forth.” 

For a short time after this he held a post in the Bos- 
ton custom-house, given him by the historian George 
Bancroft, who was then collector of the port. He kept 
at his writing, also, and prepared the first part of the 
volume published as Grandfather's Chair , in which he 
told stories to children drawn from early New Eng- 
land history. In 1842 he married Miss Sophia Pea- 
body, and went to live in Concord, Massachusetts. He 
occupied an old house near the river, which had been 
the home of the village minister for more than one gen- 
eration, and was known as the Old Manse. He now 
gave himself busily to writing, and in 1846 the stories 


10 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


which he wrote were gathered into two volumes under 
the title Mosses from an Old Manse. 

In that same year he was appointed surveyor of the 
port of Salem, and held the office for three years. It 
was while living in Salem, among the old familiar scenes, 
that he wrote the novel which gave him fame, The 
Scarlet Letter ; yet so diffident was he, and so discour- 
aged by the slow sale of the little books he had put 
forth, that the manuscript of the first draft of the novel 
lay neglected, until a persistent friend, a publisher, Mr. 
James T. Fields, discovered it. The publication at once 
brought Hawthorne noticeably forward. The book was 
published in 1850, after he had left the custom-house in 
Salem ; and he took his family at this time to Lenox, in 
the western part of Massachusetts, where he lived for a 
little more than a year. He wrote there another of his 
great novels, The House of the Seven Gables , and also 
his Wonder-Book , in which he retold for children some 
of the old classic legends. One of them, The Golden 
Touch, is printed in this book. Afterwards he wrote 
The Tanglewood Tales, a book of similar stories. 

Hawthorne was now a well-known American author, 
not so much because he had written books which every- 
body had read, as because the best judges of good books 
in America and England were eager to read every- 
thing he might write, for they saw that a new and great 
author had arisen. In 1853 his old college friend 
Franklin Pierce was President, and he appointed Haw- 
thorne consul of the United States in Liverpool, Eng- 
land. Thither he went with his family, and remained 
in Europe until 1860, although he left the consulate in 
1857. The seven years which he spent abroad were 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


11 


h a PPy ones, and his Note-Books , passages from which 
have been published, give charming accounts of what he 
saw and did. Two books grew out of his life in Eu- 
rope : Our Old Home , which tells of sights and people 
in England ; and The Marble Faun , which is a novel 
the scene of which is laid in Italy. 

Hawthorne wrote other books, which are not named 
here, and he began one or two which he never finished. 
Most of his writings are better read by older people 
than by children, for though he wrote some books ex- 
pressly for the young, he was most deeply moved by 
thoughts about life which the young cannot understand. 
He sometimes made allegories, like Bunyan’s Pilgrim's 
Progress , and one of them is given here, Little Daffy- 
downdilly ; and he always cared for the strange things 
which happen, just as some people like to walk in the 
twilight and to listen to mysterious sounds. He was 
not afraid of the dark, and he thought much of how 
people felt when they had done wrong or had suffered 
some great trouble. In the story The Wives of the 
Dead , one can see how well he understood just how a 
widow might feel, and what would be the ways of peo- 
ple who learned of strange things suddenly. 

Hawthorne died May 19, 1864, and was buried on a 
hill-side in the cemetery at Concord. The day on which 
he was buried was the one lovely day of a stormy week, 
and in a poem which Longfellow wrote after the funeral 
we may catch a glimpse of the beauty of the scene, and 
know a little of the thoughts of those who were present. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 
In the long week of rain ! 

Though all its splendor could not chase away 
The omnipresent pain. 


12 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, 

And the great elms o’erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms 
Shot through with golden thread. 

Many famous men and women followed him as he was 
borne to the grave, and a few of them knew him. Yet 
very few could say they knew him well. The people 
who now read his books may know almost as much of 
him as those who met him daily, for it was in his books 
that he made himself known. He left a son and two 
daughters, one of whom has since died. 


AMERICAN CLASSICS FOR SCHOOLS. 
HAWTHORNE. 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 

Daffydowndilly was so called because in his nature 
he resembled a flower, and loved to do only what was 
beautiful and agreeable, and took no delight in labor of 
any kind. But, while Daffydowndilly was yet a little 
boy, his mother sent him away from his pleasant home, 
and put him under the care of a very strict school- 
master, who went by the name of Mr. Toil. Those 
who knew him best affirmed that this Mr. Toil was a 
very worthy character, and that he had done more good, 
both to children and grown people, than anybody else in 
the world. Certainly he had lived long enough to do a 
great deal of good ; for, if all stories be true, he had 
dwelt upon earth ever since Adam was driven from the 
garden of Eden. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Toil had a severe and ugly counte- 
nance, especially for such little boys or big men as were 
inclined to be idle ; his voice, too, was harsh ; and all 
his ways and customs seemed very disagreeable to our 
friend Daffydowndilly. The whole day long, this ter- 


14 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 


rible old schoolmaster sat at his desk overlooking the 
scholars, or stalked about the school-room with a certain 
awful birch rod in his hand. Now came a rap over the 
shoulders of a boy whom Mr. Toil had caught at play ; 
now he punished .a whole class who were behindhand 
with their lessons ; and, in short, unless a lad chose to at- 
tend quietly and constantly to his book, he had no chance 
of enjoying a quiet moment in the school-room of Mr. 
Toil. 

“ This will never do for me,” thought Daffydown- 
dilly. 

Now, the whole of Daffydowndilly ’s life had hitherto 
been passed with his dear mother, who had a much 
sweeter face than old Mr. Toil, and who had always 
been very indulgent to her little boy. No wonder, there- 
fore, that poor Daffydowndilly found it a woful change, 
to be sent away from the good lady’s side, and put 
under the care of this ugly-visaged schoolmaster, who 
never gave him any apples or cakes, and seemed to 
think that little boys were created only to get lessons. 

“ I can’t bear it any longer,” said Daffydowndilly to 
himself, when he had been at school about a week. 
“ I ’ll run away, and try to find my dear mother ; and, 
at any rate, I shall never find anybody half so disagree- 
able as this old Mr. Toil ! ” 

So, the very next morning, off started poor Daffy- 
downdilly, and began his rambles about the world, with 
only some bread and cheese for his breakfast, and very 
little pocket-money to pay his expenses. But he had 
gone only a short distance when he overtook a man of 
grave and sedate appearance, who was trudging at a 
moderate pace along the road. 


LITTLE DAFFY DO WNDILL Y. 


15 


“ Good-morning, my fine lad,” said the stranger ; and 
his voice seemed hard and severe, hut yet had a sort 
of kindness in it ; “ whence do you come so early, and 
whither are you going ? ” 

Little Daffydowndilly was a boy of very ingenuous 
disposition, and had never been known to tell a lie in 
all his life. Nor did he tell one now. He hesitated a 
moment or two, but finally confessed that he had run 
away from school, on account of his great dislike to Mr. 
Toil ; and that he was resolved to find some place in 
the world where he should never see or hear of the old 
schoolmaster again. 

“ O, very well, my little friend ! ” answered the stran- 
ger. “ Then we will go together ; for I, likewise, have 
had a good deal to do with Mr. Toil, and should be glad 
to find some place where he was never heard of.” 

Our friend Daffydowndilly would have been better 
pleased with a companion of his own age, with whom 
he might have gathered flowers along the roadside, or 
have chased butterflies, or have done many other things 
to make the journey pleasant. But he had wisdom 
enough to understand that he should get along through 
the world much easier by having a man of experience to 
show him the way. So he accepted the stranger’s pro- 
posal, and they walked on very sociably together. 

They had not gone far, when the road passed by a 
field where some haymakers were at work, mowing 
down the tall grass, and spreading it out in the sun to 
dry. Daffydowndilly was delighted with the sweet 
smell of the new-mown grass, and thought how much 
pleasanter it must be to make hay in the sunshine, under 
the blue sky, and with the birds singing sweetly in the 


16 


LITTLE DAFFY DO WNDILL Y. 


neighboring trees and bushes, than to be shut up in a 
dismal school-room, learning lessons all day long, and 
continually scolded by old Mr. Toil. But, in the midst 
of these thoughts, while he was stopping to peep over 
the stone wall, he started back and caught hold of his 
companion’s hand. 

“ Quick, quick ! ” cried he. “ Let us run away, or 
he will catch us ! ” 

“ Who will catch us ? ” asked the stranger. 

“ Mr. Toil, the old schoolmaster ! ” answered Daffy- 
downdilly. “ Don’t you see him amongst the hay- 
makers ? ” 

And Daffydowndilly pointed to an elderly man, who 
seemed to be the owner of the field, and the employer 
of the men at work there. He had stripped off his coat 
and waistcoat, and was busily at work in his shirt-sleeves. 
The drops of sweat stood upon his brow ; but he gave 
himself not a moment’s rest, and kept crying out to the 
haymakers to make hay while the sun shone. Now, 
strange to say, the figure and features of this old farmer 
were precisely the same as those of old Mr. Toil, who, 
at that very moment, must have been just entering his 
school-room. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” said the stranger. “ This is not 
Mr. Toil the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who was 
bred a farmer ; and people say he is the more disagree- 
able man of the two. However, he won’t trouble you, 
unless you become a laborer on the farm.” 

Little Daffydowndilly believed what his companion 
said, but was very glad, nevertheless, when they were 
out of sight of the old farmer, who bore such a singular 
resemblance to Mr. Toil. The two travellers had gone 


LITTLE DA FFYDO WNDILL Y. 


17 


but little farther, when they came to a spot where some 
carpenters were erecting a house. Daffydowndilly 
begged his companion to stop a moment ; for it was a 
very pretty sight to see how neatly the carpenters did 
their work, with their broad-axes and saws and planes 
and hammers, shaping out the doors, and putting in the 
window-sashes, and nailing on the clapboards ; and he 
could not help thinking that he should like to take a 
broad-axe, a saw, a plane, and a hammer, and build a 
little house for himself. And then, when he should 
have a house of his own, old Mr. Toil would never dare 
to molest him. 

But, just while he was delighting himself with this 
idea, little Daffydowndilly beheld something that made 
him catch hold of his companion’s hand, all in a fright. 

“ Make haste ! Quick, quick ! ” cried he. “ There 
he is again ! ” 

“ Who ? ” asked the stranger, very quietly. 

“ Old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, trembling. 
“ There ! he that is overseeing the carpenters. ’T is 
my old schoolmaster, as sure as I ’m alive ! ” 

The stranger cast his eyes where Daffydowndilly 
pointed his finger ; and he saw an elderly man, with a 
carpenter’s rule and compasses in his hand. This per- 
son went to and fro about the unfinished house, meas- 
uring pieces of timber, and marking out the work that 
was to be done, and continually exhorting the other 
carpenters to be diligent. And wherever he turned his 
hard and wrinkled visage, the men seemed to feel that 
they had a task-master over them, and sawed and ham- 
mered and planed, as if for dear life. 

“ O no ! this is not Mr. Toil the schoolmaster,” said 
2 


18 


LITTLE DAFFY DOWNDILLY. 


the stranger. “ It is another brother of his, who follows 
the trade of carpenter.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it,” quoth Daffy downdilly ; 
“ but if you please, sir, I should like to get out of his 
way as soon as possible.” 

Then they went on a little farther, and soon heard 
the sound of a drum and fife. Daffydowndilly pricked 
up his ears at this, and besought his companion to hurry 
forward, that they might not miss seeing the soldiers. 
Accordingly, they made what haste they could, and soon 
met a company of soldiers, gayly dressed, with beautiful 
feathers in their caps and bright muskets on their shoul- 
ders. In front marched two drummers and two fifers, 
beating on their drums and playing on their fifes with 
might and main, and making such lively music that little 
Daffydowndilly would gladly have followed them to the 
end of the world. And if he were only a soldier, then, 
he said to himself, old Mr. Toil would never venture to 
look him in the face. 

“Quick step! Forward march!” shouted a gruff 
voice. 

Little Daffydowndilly started, in great dismay ; for 
this voice which had spoken to the soldiers sounded 
precisely the same as that which he had heard every 
day in Mr. Toil’s school-room, out of Mr. Toil’s own 
mouth. And, turning his eyes to the captain of the 
company, what should he see but the very image of old 
Mr. Toil himself, with a smart cap and feather on his 
head, a pair of gold epaulets on his shoulders, a laced 
coat on his back, a purple sash round his waist, and a 
long sword, instead of a birch rod, in his hand. And 
though he held his head so high, and strutted like a 


LITTLE DAFFYDO WN DILL Y. 


19 


turkey-cock, still he looked quite as ugly and disagree- 
able as when he was hearing lessons in the school- 
room. 

“ This is certainly old Mr. Toil,” said Daffydowndilly, 
in a trembling voice. “ Let us run away, for fear he 
should make us enlist in his company ! ” 

“ You are mistaken again, my little friend,” replied 
the stranger, very composedly. “ This is not Mr. Toil 
the schoolmaster, but a brother of his, who has served 
in the army all his life. People say he ’s a terribly 
severe fellow ; but you and I need not be afraid of 
him.” 

“ Well, well,” said little Daffydowndilly ; “ but, if you 
please, sir, I don’t want to see the soldiers any more.” 

So the child and the stranger resumed their journey ; 
and, by and by, they came to a house by the roadside, 
where a number of people were making merry. Young 
men and rosy-cheeked girls, with smiles on their faces, 
were dancing to the sound of a fiddle. It was the pleas- 
antest sight that Daffydowndilly had yet met with, and 
it comforted him for all his disappointments. 

“ O, let us stop here ! ” cried he to his companion ; 
“ for Mr. Toil will never dare to show his face where 
there is a fiddler, and where people are dancing and 
making merry. We shall be quite safe here ! ” 

But these last words died away upon Daffydowndilly’s 
tongue ; for, happening to cast his eyes on the fiddler, 
whom should he behold, again, but the likeness of Mr. 
Toil, holding a fiddle-bow instead of a birch rod, and 
flourishing it with as much ease and dexterity as if he 
had been a fiddler all his life ! He had somewhat the 
air of a Frenchman, but still looked exactly like the old 


20 


LITTLE DAFFYDOWND1LLY 


schoolmaster ; and Daffydowndilly even fancied that he 
nodded and winked at him, and made signs for him to 
join in the dance. 

“ O dear me ! ” whispered he, turning pale. “ It 
seems as if there was nobody but Mr. Toil in the world. 
Who could have thought of his playing on a fiddle ! ” 

“ This is not your old schoolmaster,” observed the 
stranger, “ but another brother of his, who was bred in 
France, where he learned the profession of a fiddler. 
He is ashamed of his family, and generally calls himself 
Monsieur le Plaisir ; 1 but his real name is Toil, and 
those who have known him best think him still more 
disagreeable than his brothers.” 

“ Pray let us go a little farther,” said Daffydowndilly. 
“ I don’t like the looks of this fiddler at all.” 

Well, thus the stranger and little Daffydowndilly 
went wandering along the highway, and in shady lanes, 
and through pleasant villages ; and whithersoever they 
went, behold! there was the image of old Mr. Toil. 
He stood like a scarecrow in the cornfields. If they en- 
tered a house, he sat in the parlor ; if they peeped into 
the kitchen, he was there. He made himself at home in 
every cottage, and stole, under one disguise or another, 
into the most splendid mansions. Everywhere there 
was sure to be somebody wearing the likeness of Mr. 
Toil, and who, as the stranger affirmed, was one of the 
old schoolmaster’s innumerable brethren. 

Little Daffydowndilly was almost tired to death, when 
he perceived some people reclining lazily in a shady 
place, by the side of the road. The poor child entreated 
his companion that they might sit down there, and take 
some repose. 


i Mr. Pleasure. 



“ The road passed by a field where some haymakers were at 
work.” — Page 15. 






LITTLE DAFFYDOWNDILLY. 21 

“ Old Mr. Toil will never come here,” said he ; “ for 
he hates to see people taking their ease.” 

But, even while he spoke, Daffydowndilly’s eyes fell 
upon a person who seemed the laziest and heaviest and 
most torpid of all those lazy and heavy and torpid 
people who had lain down to sleep in the shade. Who 
should it be, again, but the very image of Mr. Toil ! 

“ There is a large family of these Toils,” remarked 
the stranger. “ This is another of the old schoolmaster’s 
brothers, who was bred in Italy, where he acquired very 
idle habits, and goes by the name of Signor Far Niente . 1 
He pretends to lead an easy life, but is really the most 
miserable fellow in the family.” 

“ O, take me back ! — take me back ! ” cried poor 
little Daffydowndilly, bursting into tears. “ If there is 
nothing but Toil all the world over, I may just as well 
go back to the school-house ! ” 

“ Yonder it is, — there is the school-house ! ” said the 
stranger ; for though he and little Daffydowndilly had 
taken a great many steps, they had travelled in a circle, 
instead of a straight line. “ Come ; we will go back to 
school together.” 

There was something in his companion’s voice that 
little Daffydowndilly now remembered ; and it is strange 
that he had not remembered it sooner. Looking up into 
his face, behold ! there again was the likeness of old Mr. 
Toil ; so that the poor child had been in company with 
Toil all day, even while he was doing his best to run 
away from him. Some people, to whom I have told little 
Daffydowndilly’s story, are of opinion that old Mr. Toil 
was a magician, and possessed the power of multiplying 
himself into as many shapes as he saw fit. 

1 Mr. Do-Nothing. 


22 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


Be this as it may, little Daffydowndilly had learned a 
good lesson, and from that time forward was diligent at 
his task, because he knew that diligence is not a whit 
more toilsome than sport or idleness. And when he 
became better acquainted with Mr. Toil, he began to 
think that his ways were not so very disagreeable, and 
that the old schoolmaster’s smile of approbation made 
his face almost as pleasant as even that of Daffy down- 
dilly’s mother. 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 

Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! 

The town crier has rung his hell, at a distant corner, 
and little Annie stands on her father’s doorsteps, trying 
to hear what the man with the loud voice is talking about. 
Let me listen too. O, he is telling the people that an 
elephant, and a lion, and a royal tiger, and a horse with 
horns, and other strange beasts from foreign countries, 
have come to town, and will receive all visitors who 
choose to wait upon them ! Perhaps little Annie would 
like to go. Yes ; and I can see that the pretty child is 
weary of this wide and pleasant street, with the green 
trees flinging their shade across the quiet sunshine, and 
the pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if the 
housemaid had just swept them with her broom. She 
feels that impulse to go strolling away — that longing 
after the mystery of the great world — which many 
children feel, and which I felt in my childhood. Little 
Annie shall take a ramble with me. See ! I do but hold 
out my hand, and, like some bright bird in the sunny 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


23 


air, with her blue silk frock fluttering upwards from her 
white pantalets, she comes bounding on tiptoe across the 
street. 

Smooth back your brown curls, Annie ; and let me tie 
on your bonnet, and we will set forth ! What a strange 
couple to go on their rambles together ! One walks in 
black attire, with a measured step, and a heavy brow, 
and his thoughtful eyes bent down, while the gay little 
girl trips lightly along, as if she were forced to keep hold 
of my hand, lest her feet should dance away from the 
earth. Yet there is sympathy between us. If I pride 
myself on anything, it is because I have a smile that 
children love ; and, on the other hand, there are few 
grown ladies that could entice me from the side of little 
Annie ; for I delight to let my mind go hand in hand 
with the mind of a sinless child. So, come, Annie* ; but 
if I moralize as we go, do not listen to me ; only look 
about you, and be merry ! 

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two 
horses, and stage-coaches with four, thundering to meet 
each other, and trucks and carts moving at a slower 
pace, being heavily laden with barrels from the wharves ; 
and here are rattling gigs, which perhaps will be smashed 
to pieces before our eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a 
man trundling a wheelbarrow along the pavement. Is 
not little Annie afraid of such a tumult ? No ; she does 
hot even shrink closer to my side, but passes on with 
fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a great throng 
of grown people, who pay the same reverence to her in- 
fancy that they would to extreme old age. Nobody 
jostles her ; all turn aside to make way for little Annie ; 
and, what is most singular, she appears conscious of her 


24 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


claim to such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleas- 
ure ! A street-musician has seated himself on the steps 
of yonder church, and pours forth his strains to the busy 
town, a melody that has gone astray among the tramp of 
footsteps, the buzz of voices, and the war of passing 
wheels. Who heeds the poor organ-grinder ? None but 
myself and little Annie, whose feet begin to move in 
unison with the lively tune, as if she were loath that 
music should be wasted without a dance. But where 
would Annie find a partner ? Some have the gout in 
their toes, or the rheumatism in their joints ; some are 
stiff with age, some feeble with disease ; some are so 
lean that their bones would rattle, and others of such 
ponderous size that their agility would crack the flag- 
stones ; but many, many have leaden feet, because their 
hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a sad thought 
that I have chanced upon. What a company of dan- 
cers should we be ! For I, too, am a gentleman of 
sober footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us walk 
sedately on. 

It is a question with me whether this giddy child, or 
my sage self, have most pleasure in looking at the shop- 
windows. We love the silks of sunny hue, that glow 
within the darkened premises of the spruce dry-goods’ 
men ; we are pleasantly dazzled by the burnished silver 
and the chased gold, the rings of wedlock and the costly 
love-ornaments, glistening at the window of the jeweller ; 
but Annie, more than I, seeks for a glimpse of her pass- 
ing figure in the dusty looking-glasses at the hardware 
stores. All that is bright and gay attracts us both. 

Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boy- 
hood, as well as present partialities, give a peculiar 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


25 


magic. How delightful to let the fancy revel on the 
dainties of a confectioner ; those pies, with such white 
and flaky paste, their contents being a mystery, whether 
rich mince, with whole plums intermixed, or piquant 
apple, delicately rose-flavored ; those cakes, heart-shaped 
or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; those sweet little 
circlets, sweetly named kisses ; those dark, majestic 
masses, fit to be bridal-loaves at the wedding of an 
heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow- 
covered with sugar ! Then the mighty treasures of 
sugar-plums, white and crimson and yellow, in large 
glass vases ; and candy of all varieties ; and those little 
cockles, or whatever they are called, much prized by 
children for their sweetness, and more, for the mottoes 
which they inclose, by love-sick maids and bachelors ! 
O, my mouth waters, little Annie, and so doth yours ; 
hut we will not he tempted, except to an imaginary 
feast ; so let us hasten onward, devouring the vision of 
a plum-cake. 

Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a 
more exalted kind, in the window of a bookseller. Is 
Annie a literary lady ? Yes ; she is deeply read in 
Peter Parley’s tomes, and has an increasing love for 
fairy-tales, though seldom met with nowadays, and she 
will subscribe, next year, to the Juvenile Miscellany } 
But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn away from the 
printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty pictures, 
such as the gay-colored ones which make this shop- 
window the continual loitering-place of children. What 
would Annie think, if, in the book which I mean to send 

1 The name of a magazine published when this story was first 
printed. 


26 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE . 


her on New Year’s Day, she should find her sweet little 
self, bound up in silk or morocco with gilt edges, there 
to remain till she become a woman grown, with children 
of her own to read about their mother’s childhood ! 
That would be very queer. 

Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me on- 
ward by the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most 
wondrous shop in all the town. O, my stars ! Is this 
a toy-shop, or is it fairy-land ? For here are gilded 
chariots, in which the king and queen of the fairies 
might ride side by side, while their courtiers, on these 
small horses, should gallop in triumphal procession be- 
fore and behind the royal pair. Here, too, are dishes of 
china-ware, fit to be the dining set of those same princely 
personages, when they make a regal banquet in the state- 
liest hall of their palace, full five feet high, and behold 
their nobles feasting adown the long perspective of the 
table. Betwixt the king and queen should sit my little 
Annie, the prettiest fairy of them all. Here stands a 
turbaned Turk, threatening us with his sabre, like an 
ugly heathen as he is. And next a Chinese mandarin, 
who nods his head at Annie and myself. Here we may 
review a whole army of horse and foot, in red and blue 
uniforms, with drums, fifes, trumpets, and all kinds of 
noiseless music ; they have halted on the shelf of this 
window, after their weary march from Lilliput. But 
what cares Annie for soldiers ? No conquering queen is 
she, neither a Semiramis 1 nor a Catharine ; 2 her whole 

1 A famous queen of the East, thought by some to have been 
living in the time of Tiglath-Pileser, mentioned in the Bible. 

2 There were several Queen Catharines, but perhaps the most 
famous was the wife of Henry VIII., King of England. 


LITTLE ANNIEAS RAMBLE . 27 

heart is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with such a 
fashionable stare. This is the little girl’s true plaything. 
Though made of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal 
personage, endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar 
life ; the mimic lady is a heroine of romance, an actor 
and a sufferer in a thousand shadowy scenes, the chief 
inhabitant of that wild world with which children ape 
the real one. Little Annie does not understand what 
I am saying, but looks wishfully at the proud lady in 
the window. We will invite her home with us as we 
return. Meantime, good-by, Dame Doll ! A toy your- 
self, you look forth from your window upon many ladies 
that are also toys, though they walk and speak, and 
upon a crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave 
visages. O, with your never-closing eyes, had you but 
an intellect to moralize on all that flits before them, 
what a wise doll would you be ! Come, little Annie, we 
shall find toys enough, go where we may. 

Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It 
is curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to meet 
with living creatures that had their birthplace in some 
far solitude, but have acquired a second nature in the 
wilderness of men. Look up, Annie, at that canary-bird, 
hanging out of the window in his cage. Poor little fel- 
low ! His golden feathers are all tarnished in tills smoky 
sunshine ; he would have glistened twice as brightly 
among the summer islands ; but still he has become a 
citizen in all his tastes and habits, and would not sing 
half so well without the uproar that drowns his music. 
What a pity that he does not know how miserable he 
is ! There is a parrot, too, calling out, “ Pretty Poll ! 
Pretty Poll! ” as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be talk- 


28 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE . 


ing about her prettiness to strangers, especially as she is 
not a pretty Poll, though gaudily dressed in green and 
yellow. If she had said, “ Pretty Annie,” there would 
have been some sense in it. See that gray squirrel at 
the door of the fruit-shop, whirling round and round so 
merrily within his wire wheel ! Being condemned to 
the tread-mill, he makes it an amusement. Admirable 
philosophy ! 

Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman’s dog in 
search of his master ; smelling at everybody’s heels, and 
touching little Annie’s hand with his cold nose, but hur- 
rying away, though she would fain have patted him. 
Success to your search, Fidelity ! And there sits a great 
yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and 
comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory world with 
owl’s eyes, and making pithy comments, doubtless, or 
what appear such to the silly beast. O sage puss, 
make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of 
philosophers ! 

Here we see something to remind us of the town crier, 
and his ding-dong bell ! Look ! look at that great cloth 
spread out in the air, pictured all over with wild beasts, 
as if they had met together to choose a king, accord- 
ing to their custom in the days of iEsop. But they are 
choosing neither a king nor a president ; else we should 
hear a most horrible snarling ! They have come from 
the deep woods, and the wild mountains, and the desert 
sands, and the polar snows, only to do homage to my 
little Annie. As we enter among them, the great ele- 
phant makes us a bow, in the best style of elephantine 
courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain bulk, with 
trunk abased, and leg thrust out behind. Annie returns 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


29 


the salute, much to the gratification of the elephant, who 
is certainly the best-bred monster in the caravan. The 
lion and the lioness are busy with two beef bones. The 
royal tiger, the beautiful, the untamable, keeps pacing 
his narrow cage with a haughty step, unmindful of the 
spectators, or recalling the fierce deeds of his former 
life, when he was wont to leap forth upon such inferior 
animals, from the jungles of Bengal. 

Here we see the very same wolf, — do not go near 
him, Annie ! — the self-same wolf that devoured little 
Red Riding Hood and her grandmother. In the next 
cage, a hyena from Egypt, who has doubtless howled 
around the pyramids, and a black bear from our own 
forests are fellow-prisoners, and most excellent friends. 
Are there any two living creatures who have so few 
sympathies that they cannot possibly be friends ? Here 
sits a great white bear, whom common observers would 
call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him to be 
only absorbed in contemplation : he is thinking of his 
voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in 
the vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom 
he left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear 
of sentiment. But, O, those unsentimental monkeys ! 
the ugly, grinning, aping, chattering, ill-natured, mis- 
chievous, and queer little brutes. Annie does not love 
the monkeys. Their ugliness shocks her pure, instinct- 
ive delicacy of taste, and makes her mind unquiet, be- 
cause it be&rs a wild and dark resemblance to humanity. 
But here is a little pony, just big enough for Annie to 
ride, and round and round he gallops in a circle, keeping 
time with his trampling hoofs to a band of music. And 
here, — with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a riding- 


80 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


whip in his hand, — here comes a little gentleman, small 
enough to he king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be 
king of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the 
saddle. Merrily, merrily plays the music, and merrily 
gallops the pony, and merrily rides the little old gentle- 
man. Come, Annie, into the street again ; perchance 
we may see monkeys on horseback there ! 

Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live 
in ! Did Annie ever read the Cries of London City ? 1 
With what lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that 
his wheelbarrow is full of lobsters ! Here comes another 
mounted on a cart, and blowing a hoarse and dreadful 
blast from a tin horn, as much as to say, “ Fresh fish ! ” 
And hark ! a voice on high, like that of a muezzin 2 from 
the summit of a mosque, announcing that some chimney- 
sweeper has emerged from smoke and soot and dark- 
some caverns into the upper air. What cares the world 
for that ? But, well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of afflic- 
tion, the scream of a little child, rising louder with every 
repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced 
by an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, 
though without experience of such direful woe. Lo ! 
the town crier 8 again, with some new secret for the pub- 

1 The name of a book which tells of the different goods which 
their sellers shout, as they walk through the streets of London. 

2 In Mohammedan countries, a crier, called a muezzin, is sta- 
tioned upon high towers to give notice to the people below that it 
is the hour for prayer. He serves as a church bell, at various times 
in the day, and faithful Mohammedans, when they hear his voice 
calling, cease what they are doing, and spend a few moments in 
prayer. 

3 In some few places the town crier still goes about the streets 
with a bell, which he rings to attract attention, and then he cries 




“ Stop, stop, town crier! the lost is found.” — Page 31. 




LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


31 


lie ear. Will he tell us of an auction, or of a lost pocket- 
book, or a show of beautiful wax figures, or of some 
monstrous beast more horrible than any in the caravan ? 
I guess* the latter. See how he uplifts the bell in his 
right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, then with a 
hurried motion, till the clapper seems to strike both 
sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick 
succession, far and near. 

Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! 

Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the din 
of the town ; it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, 
and draws each man’s mind from his own business ; it 
rolls up and down the echoing street, and ascends to the 
hushed chamber of the sick, and penetrates downward 
to the cellar kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the 
fire to listen. Who, of all that address the public ear, 
whether in church, or court-house, or hall of state, has 
such an attentive audience as the town crier ? What 
saith the people’s orator ? 

“ Strayed from her home, a little girl, of five years 
old, in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, with brown 
curling hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will bring her 
back to her afflicted mother ” — 

Stop, stop, town crier ! The lost is found. O, my 
pretty Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our 
ramble, and she is in despair, and has sent the town 
crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting old 
and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once 

an auction sale, or lost property, or it may be a lost child ; but in 
large towns and cities now the newspapers and handbills give out 
notices, and when anything is lost people go to the police, or ad- 
vertise in the papers. 


82 


LITTLE ANNIE'S RAMBLE. 


let go my hand ! Well, let us hasten homeward ; and, 
as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, my Annie, that, 
after wandering a little way into the world, you may 
return at the first summons, with an untainted and un- 
wearied heart, and he a happy child again. But I have 
gone too far astray for the town crier to call me back. 

Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, 
throughout my ramble with little Annie ! Say not that 
it has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, 
a babble of childish talk, and a reverie of childish imagi- 
nations, about topics unworthy of a grown man’s notice. 
Has it been merely this? Not so; not so. They are 
not truly wise who would affirm it. As the pure breath 
of children revives the life of aged men, so is our moral 
nature revived by their free and simple thoughts, their 
native feeling, their airy mirth, for little cause or none, 
their grief, soon roused and soon allayed. Their influ- 
ence on us is at least reciprocal with ours on them. 
When our infancy is almost forgotten, and our boyhood 
long departed, though it seems but as yesterday ; when 
life settles darkly down upon us, and we doubt whether 
to call ourselves young any more, then it is good to steal 
away from the society of bearded men, and even of 
gentler woman, and spend an hour or two with children. 
After drinking from those fountains of still fresh exist- 
ence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, to 
struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as fer- 
vently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer 
heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All this by thy 
sweet magic, dear little Annie ! 


BENJAMIN WEST . 


83 


BENJAMIN WEST. 

[Born 1738. Died 1820.] 

In the year 1738 there came into the world, in the 
town of Springfield, 1 Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, 
from whom his parents and neighbors looked for wonder- 
ful things. A famous preacher of the Society of Friends 2 
had prophesied about little Ben, and foretold that he 
would be one of the most remarkable characters that 
had appeared on the earth since the days of William 
Penn. On this account the eyes of many people were 
fixed upon the boy. Some of his ancestors 8 had won 
great renown in the old wars of England and France ; 
but it was probably expected that Ben would become a 
preacher, and would convert multitudes to the peaceful 
doctrines of the Quakers. Friend West and his wife 
were thought to be very fortunate in having such a son. 

Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years without 

1 This Springfield is not the town of that name in Bradford 
County, in the northern part of Pennsylvania, but a place near 
Chester, in the vicinity of Philadelphia, which was named Spring- 
field by Thomas Pearson, Benjamin West’s maternal grandfather, 
who was a confidential friend of William Penn, and came over 
with Penn at the close of the seventeenth century. 

2 The Religious Society of Friends was the title which the 
Friends gave themselves, but they were commonly called Quakers. 
The society was founded under the preaching of George Fox, 
1 648-1 690. The famous preacher was Peckover ; it was while he 
was preaching in Springfield that Benjamin West was born. 

3 The branch of the West family to which Benjamin belonged 
has been traced to Lord Delawarre, who distinguished himself at 
the battle of Cressy, fought between the English and French, 
August 26, 1346. 


34 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


doing anything that was worthy to he told in history. 
But one summer afternoon, in his seventh year, his 
mother put a fan into his hand, and bade him keep the 
flies away from the face of a little babe who lay fast 
asleep in the cradle. She then left the room. 

The boy waved the fan to and fro and drove away 
the buzzing flies whenever they had the impertinence to 
come near the baby’s face. When they had all flown 
out of the window or into distant parts of the room, he 
bent over the cradle, and delighted himself with gazing 
at the sleeping infant. It was, indeed, a very pretty 
sight. The little personage in the cradle slumbered 
peacefully, with its waxen hands under its chin, looking 
as full of blissful quiet as if angels were singing lullabies 
in its ear. Indeed, it must have been dreaming about 
heaven; for, while Ben stooped over the cradle, the 
little baby smiled. 

“ How beautiful she looks ! ” said Ben to himself. 
“ What a pity it is that such a pretty smile should not 
last forever ! ” 

Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard 
of that wonderful art by which a look, that appears and 
vanishes in a moment, may be made to last for hundreds 
of years. But, though nobody had told him of such an 
art, he may be said to have invented it for himself. On 
a table near at hand there were pens and paper, and ink 
of two colors, black and red. The boy seized a pen and 
sheet of paper, and, kneeling down beside the cradle, 
began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was 
busied in this manner he heard his mother’s step ap- 
proaching, and hastily tried to conceal the paper. 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


35 


“ Benjamin, my son, what hast thou 1 been doing ? ” 
inquired his mother, observing marks of confusion in his 
face. 

At first Ben was unwilling to tell ; for he felt as if 
there might be something wrong in stealing the baby’s 
face and putting it upon a sheet of paper. However, 
as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into her 
hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well 
scolded. But when the good lady saw what was on the 
paper, in lines of red and black ink, she uttered a scream 
of surprise and joy. 

“ Bless me ! ” cried she. “It is a picture of little 
Sally ! ” 

And then she threw her arms round our friend Ben- 
jamin, and kissed him so tenderly that he never after- 
wards was afraid to show his performances to his 
mother. 

As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast de- 
light in looking at the hues and forms of nature. For 
instance, he was greatly pleased with the blue violets of 
spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scarlet cardi- 
nal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline of the year, 
when the woods were variegated with all the colors of 
the rainbow, Ben seemed to desire nothing better than 
to gaze at them from morn till night. The purple and 
golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. And he was 
continually endeavoring to draw 'the figures of trees, 
men, mountains, houses, cattle, geese, ducks, and tur- 
keys, with a piece of chalk, on barn doors or on the 
floor. 

1 The Quakers in speaking to people use thou and thee where 
others use you. 


86 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


In these old times the Mohawk Indians were still nu- 
merous in Pennsylvania. Every year a party of them 
used to pay a visit to Springfield, because the wigwams 
of their ancestors had formerly stood there. These wild 
men grew fond of little Ben, and made him very happy 
by giving him some of the red and yellow paint with 
which they were accustomed to adorn their faces. His 
mother, too, presented him with a piece of indigo. Thus 
he now had three colors, — red, blue, and yellow, — and 
could manufacture green by mixing the yellow with the 
blue. Our friend Ben was overjoyed, and doubtless 
showed his gratitude to the Indians by taking their like- 
nesses in the strange dresses which they wore, with feath- 
ers, tomahawks, and bows and arrows. 

But all this time the young artist had no paint-brushes , 
nor were there any to be bought, unless he had sent to 
Philadelphia on purpose. However, he was a very in- 
genious boy, and resolved to manufacture paint-brushes 
for himself. With this design he laid hold upon — what 
do you think ? Why, upon a respectable old black cat, 
who was sleeping quietly by the fireside. 

“ Puss,” said little Ben to the cat, u pray give me 
some of the fur from the tip of thy tail ? ” 

Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben 
was determined to have the fur whether she were willing 
or not. Puss, who had no great zeal for the fine arts, 
would have resisted if she could ; but the boy was armed 
with his mother’s scissors, and very dexterously clipped 
off fur enough to make a paint-brush. This was of so 
much use to him that he applied to Madam Puss again 
and again, until her warm coat of fur had become so 
thin and ragged that she could hardly keep comfortable 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


37 


through the winter. Poor thing ! she was forced to 
creep close into the chimney-corner, and eyed Ben with 
a very rueful physiognomy. But Ben considered it 
more necessary that he should have paint-brushes than 
that puss should be warm. 

About this period Friend West received a visit from 
Mr. Pennington, a merchant of Philadelphia, who was 
likewise a member of the Society of Friends. The vis- 
itor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it orna- 
mented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds 
with beautiful plumage, and of the wild flowers of the 
forest. Nothing of the kind was ever seen before in the 
habitation of a Quaker farmer. 

“Why, Friend West,” exclaimed the Philadelphia 
merchant, “ what has possessed thee to cover thy walls 
with all these pictures ? Where on earth didst thou get 
them ? ” 

Then Friend West explained that all these pictures 
were painted by little Ben, with no better materials than 
red and yellow ochre and a piece of indigo, and with 
brushes made of the black cat’s fur. 

“ Verily,” said Mr. Pennington, “ the boy hath a won- 
derful faculty. Some of our friends might look upon 
these matters as tanity ; but little Benjamin appears to 
have been born a painter ; and Providence is wiser than 
we are.” 

The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and 
evidently considered him a wonderful boy. When his 
parents saw how much their son’s performances were 
admired, they no doubt remembered the prophecy of 
the old Quaker preacher respecting Ben’s future emi- 
nence. Yet they could not understand how he was ever 


38 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


to become a very great and useful man merely by mak- 
ing pictures. 

One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington’s return to 
Philadelphia, a package arrived at Springfield, directed 
to our little friend Ben. 

“ What can it possibly be ? ” thought Ben, when it 
was put into his hands. “ Who can have sent me such 
a great square package as this ? ” 

On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped 
it, behold ! there was a paint-box, with a great many 
cakes of paint, and brushes of various sizes. It was the 
gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were likewise sev- 
eral squares of canvas such as artists use for painting 
pictures upon, and, in addition to all these treasures, 
some beautiful engravings of landscapes. These were 
the first pictures that Ben had ever seen, except those of 
his own drawing. 

What a joyful evening was this for the little artist ! 
At bedtime he put the paint-box under his pillow, and 
got hardly a wink of sleep ; for, all night long, his fancy 
was painting pictures in the darkness. In the morning 
he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the 
dinner-hour ; nor did he give himself time to eat more 
than a mouthful or two of food before he hurried back 
to the garret again. The next day, and the next, he was 
just as busy as ever ; until at last his mother thought it 
time to ascertain what he was about. She accordingly 
followed him to the garret. 

On opening the door, the first object that presented 
itself to her eyes was our friend Benjamin, giving the 
last touches to a beautiful picture. He had copied por- 
tions of two of the engravings, and made one picture 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


39 


out of both, with such admirable skill that it was far 
more beautiful than the originals. The grass, the trees, 
the water, the sky, and the houses were all painted in 
their proper colors. There, too, were the sunshine and 
the shadow, looking as natural as life. 

“ My dear child, thou hast done wonders ! ” cried his 
mother. 

The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And well 
might she be proud of her boy ; for there were touches 
in this picture which old artists, who had spent* a life- 
time in the business, need not have been ashamed of. 
Many a year afterwards, this wonderful production was 
exhibited at the Royal Academy 1 in London. 

When Benjamin was quite a large lad he was sent to 
school at Philadelphia. Not long after his arrival he 
had a slight attack of fever, which confined him to his 
bed. The light, which would otherwise have disturbed 
him, was excluded from his chamber by means of closed 
wooden shutters. At first it appeared so totally dark 
that Ben could not distinguish any object in the room. 
By degrees, however, his eyes became accustomed to the 
scanty light. 

He was lying on his back, looking up towards the 
ceiling, when suddenly he beheld the dim apparition of 
a white cow moving slowly over his head ! Ben started, 
and rubbed his eyes in the greatest amazement. 

“ What can this mean ? ” thought he. 

The white cow disappeared ; and next came several 
pigs, which trotted along the ceiling and vanished into 
the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike did these 

1 The Royal Academy has a school where painting is taught, 
and a gallery where pictures are exhibited. 


40 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


gnmters look that Ben almost seemed to hear them 
squeak. 

“Well, this is very strange ! ” said Ben to himself. 

When the people of the house came to see him, Ben- 
jamin told them of the marvellous circumstance which 
had occurred. But they would not believe him. 

“ Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses ! ” cried 
they. “ How is it possible that a white cow and a litter 
of pigs should be visible on the ceiling of a dark cham- 
ber ? ” - 

Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eye- 
sight, and was determined to search the mystery to the 
bottom. For this purpose, when he was again left alone, 
he got out of bed and examined the window-shutters. 
He soon perceived a small chink in one of them, through 
which a ray of light found its passage and rested upon 
the ceiling. Now, the science of optics will inform us 
that the pictures of the white cow and the pigs, and of 
other objects out-of-doors, came into the dark chamber 
through this narrow chink, and were painted over Ben- 
jamin’s head. It is greatly to his credit that he dis- 
covered the scientific principle of this phenomenon, and 
by means of it constructed a camera-obscura, or magic- 
lantern, out of a hollow box. This was of great advan- 
tage to him in drawing landscapes. 

Well, time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw 
and paint pictures until he had now reached the age 
when it was proper that he should choose a business for 
life. His father and mother were in considerable per- 
plexity about him. According to the ideas of the Quak- 
ers, it is not right for people to spend their lives in oc- 
cupations that are of no real and sensible advantage to 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


41 


the world. Now, what advantage could the world ex- 
pect from Benjamin’s pictures? This was a difficult 
question ; and, in order to set their minds at rest, his 
parents determined to consult the preachers and wise 
men of their society. Accordingly, they all assembled 
in the meeting-house, and discussed the matter from be- 
ginning to end. 

Finally they came to a very wise decision. It seemed 
so evident that Providence had created Benjamin to be 
a painter, and had given him abilities which would be 
thrown away in any other business, that the .Quakers 
resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even ac- 
knowledged that the sight of a beautiful picture might 
convey instruction to the mind, and might benefit the 
heart as much as a good book or a wise discourse. They 
therefore committed the youth to the direction of God, 
being well assured that He best knew what was his proper 
sphere of usefulness. The old men laid their hands upon 
Benjamin’s head and gave him their blessing, arid the 
women kissed him affectionately. All consented that he 
should go forth into the world and learn to be a painter 
by studying the best pictures of ancient and modern 
times. 

So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his parents, 
and his native woods and streams, and the good Quak- 
ers of Springfield, and the Indians who had given him 
his first colors ; he left all the places and persons whom 
he had hitherto known, and returned to them no more. 
He went first to Philadelphia, and afterwards to Europe. 
Here he was noticed by many great people, but retained 
all the sobriety and simplicity which he had learned 
among the Quakers. It is related of him that, when he 


42 


BENJAMIN WEST. 


was presented at the court of the Prince of Parma , 1 he 
kept his hat upon his head , 2 3 * * even while kissing the 
Prince’s hand. 

When he was twenty-five years old he went to Lon- 
don and established himself there as an artist. In due 
course of time he acquired great fame by his pictures, 
and was made chief painter to King George III. and 
President of the Royal Academy of Arts. When the 
Quakers of Pennsylvania heard of his success, they felt 
that the prophecy of the old preacher as to little Ben’s 
future eminence was now accomplished. It is true, 
they shook their heads at his pictures of battle and 
bloodshed, such as the “ Death of Wolfe,” 8 thinking that 
these terrible scenes should not be held up to the admi- 
ration of the world. 

But they approved of the great paintings in which he 
represented the miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer 
of mankind. King George employed him to adorn a 
large and beautiful chapel at Windsor Castle with pict- 
ures of these sacred subjects. He likewise painted a 
magnificent picture of “ Christ Healing the Sick,” which 
he gave to the hospital at Philadelphia. It was exhib- 

1 The Duchy of Parma, now a part of the kingdom of Italy, 
was in 1760, when West visited it, ruled over by the Infante Don 
Philip, son of the King of Spain. 

2 It was a Quaker custom to keep the head covered before 
people of all ranks, as a sign that men were really equal in the 
sight of God. At the time when the Quaker sect arose, the rich 
and proud exacted a great deal of respect from the poor and 
lowly. 

3 Upon the plains of Abraham before Quebec, where Wolfe 

fell in the battle which resulted in the English conquest of 

Canada from the French. 


BENJAMIN WEST. 43 

ited to the public, and produced so much profit that the 
hospital was enlarged so as to accommodate thirty more 
patients. If Benjamin West had done no other good 
deed than this, yet it would have been enough to entitle 
him to an honorable remembrance forever. At this 
very day there are thirty poor people in the hospital 
who owe all their comforts to that same picture. 

We shall mention only a single incident more. The 
picture of “ Christ Healing the Sick ” was exhibited at 
the Royal Academy in London, where it covered a vast 
space and displayed a multitude of figures as large as 
life. On the wall, close beside this admirable picture, 
hung a small and faded landscape. It was the same 
that little Ben had painted in his father’s garret, after 
receiving the paint-box and engravings from good Mr. 
Pennington. 

He lived many years in peace and honor, and died in 
1820, at the age of eighty-two. The story of his life is 
almost as wonderful as a fairy tale ; for there are few 
stranger transformations than that of a little unknown 
Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into the most dis- 
tinguished English painter of his day. Let us each 
make the best use of our natural abilities as Benjamin 
West did ; and, with the blessing of Providence, we 
shall arrive at some good end. As for fame, it is but 
little matter whether we acquire it or not. 


44 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 

[Born 1642 . Died 1727 .] 

Ox Christmas Day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton 
was born at the small village of Woolsthorpe, in Eng- 
land. Little did his mother think, when she beheld her 
new-born babe, that he was destined to explain many 
matters which had been a mystery ever since the crea- 
tion of the world. 

Isaac’s father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married 
again to a clergyman, and went to reside at North 
Witham. 1 Her son was left to the care of his good old 
grandmother, who was very kind to him and sent him to 
school. In his early years Isaac did not appear to be a 
very bright scholar, but was chiefly remarkable for his 
ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He had a set 
of little tools and saws of various sizes manufactured by 
himself. With the aid of these Isaac contrived to make 
many curious articles, at which he worked with so much 
skill that he seemed to have been born with a saw or 
chisel in hand. 

The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the 
things which Isaac manufactured. And his old grand- 
mother, I suppose, was never weary of talking about 
him. 

“ He ’ll make a capital workman one of these days,” 
she would probably say. “ No fear but what Isaac will 
do well in <the world and be a rich man before he dies.” 

It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipa- 
tions of his grandmother and the neighbors about Isaac’s 
1 A neighboring village. 




■* 



« sir Isaac Newton and the Apple ’ — Page 44 








SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


45 

future life. Some of them, perhaps, fancied that he 
would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, rosewood, 
or polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, and mag- 
nificently gilded. And then, doubtless, all the rich peo- 
ple would purchase these fine things to adorn their draw- 
ing-rooms. Others probably thought that little Isaac was 
destined to be an architect, and would build splendid 
mansions for the nobility and gentry, and churches too, 
with the tallest steeples that had ever been seen in Eng- 
land. 

Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac’s grand- 
mother to apprentice him to a clock-maker ; for, besides 
his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to have a taste for 
mathematics, which would be very useful to him in that 
profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up 
for himself, and would manufacture curious clocks, like 
those that contain sets of dancing figures, which issue 
from the dial-plate when the hour is struck ; or like those 
where a ship sails across the face of the clock, and is 
seen tossing up and down on the waves as often as the 
pendulum vibrates. 

Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that 
Isaac would devote himself to the manufacture of clocks, 
since he had already made one, of a kind which nobody 
had ever heard of before. It was set a-going, not by 
wheels and weights like other clocks, but by the drop- 
ping of water. This was an object of great wonderment 
to all the people round about ; and it must be confessed 
that there are few boys, or men either, who could con- 
trive to tell what o’clock it is by means of a bowl of 
water. 

Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sun-dial. Thus 


46 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


his grandmother was never at a loss to know the hour : 
for the water-clock would tell it in the shade, and the 
dial in the sunshine. The sun-dial is said to he still in 
existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house 
where Isaac dwelt. If so, it must have marked the 
passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed since Isaac 
Newton was a hoy. It marked all the famous moments 
of his life ; it marked the hour of his death ; and still 
the sunshine creeps slowly over it, as regularly as when 
Isaac first set it up. 

Yet we must not say that the sun-dial has lasted longer 
than its maker ; for Isaac Newton will exist long after 
the dial — yea, and long after the sun itself — shall have 
crumbled to decay. 

Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring knowl- 
edge by the simplest means. For instance, what method 
do you suppose he took to find out the strength of the 
wind? You will never guess how the boy could compel 
that unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable wonder, the 
wind, to tell him the measure of its strength. Yet noth- 
ing can be more simple. He jumped against the wind ; 
and by the length of his jump he could calculate the 
force of a gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a tempest. 
Thus, even in his boyish sports, he was continually 
searching out the secrets of philosophy. 

Not far from his grandmother’s residence there was 
a windmill which operated on a new plan. Isaac was 
in the habit of going thither frequently, and would spend 
whole hours in examining its various parts. While the 
mill was at rest he pried into its internal machinery. 
When its broad sails were set in motion by the wind, 
he watched the process by which the mill-stones were 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


47 


made to revolve and crush the grain that was put into 
the hopper. After gaining a thorough knowledge of its 
construction he was observed to be unusually busy with 
his tools. 

It was not long before his grandmother and all the 
neighborhood knew what Isaac had been about. He had 
constructed a model of the windmill. Though not so 
large, I suppose, as one of the box-traps which boys set 
to catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and its ma- 
chinery was complete. Its little sails were neatly made 
of linen, and whirled round very swiftly when the mill 
was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff of wind 
from Isaac’s mouth or from a pair of bellows was suffi- 
cient to set the sails in motion. And, what was most 
curious, if a handful of grains of wheat were put into 
the little hopper, they would soon be converted into 
snow-white flour. 

Isaac’s playmates were enchanted with his new wind- 
mill. They thought that nothing so pretty and so won- 
derful had ever been seen in the whole world. 

“ Eut, Isaac,” said one of them, “ you have forgotten 
one thing that belongs to a mill.” 

“ What is that ? ” asked Isaac ; for he supposed that, 
from the roof of the mill to its foundation, he had for- 
gotten nothing. 

“ Why, where is the miller ? ” said his friend. 

“ That is true, — I must look out for one,” said Isaac ; 
and he set himself to consider how the deficiency should 
be supplied. 

He might easily have made the miniature figure of 
a man ; but then it would not have been able to move 
about and perform the duties of a miller. As Captain 


48 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of 
Lilliput , 1 Isaac did not know that there were little men 
in the world whose size was just suited to his windmill. 
It so happened, however, that a mouse had just been 
caught in the trap ; and, as no other miller could he 
found, Mr. Mouse was appointed to that important office. 
The new miller made a very respectable appearance in 
his dark-gray coat. To be sure, he had not a very good 
character for honesty, and was suspected of sometimes 
stealing a portion of the grain which was given him to 
grind. But perhaps some two-legged millers are quite 
as dishonest as this small quadruped. 

As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far 
more important matters in his mind than the manufact- 
ure of toys like the little windmill. All day long, if left 
to himself, he was either absorbed in thought or engaged 
in some book of mathematics or natural philosophy. At 
night, I think it probable, he looked up with reverential 
curiosity to the stars, and wondered whether they were 
worlds like our own, and how great was their distance 
from the earth, and what was the power that kept them 
in their courses. Perhaps, even so early in life, Isaac 
Newton felt a presentiment that he should be able, here- 
after, to answer all these questions. 

When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother’s sec- 
ond husband being now dead, she wished her son to leave 
school and assist her in managing the farm at'Wools- 
thorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried to turn 

1 Jonathan Swift, an English writer, born when Newton was 
twenty -five years old, wrote Gulliver's Travels , which included a 
Voyage to Lilliput , an imaginary island inhabited by miniature 
people. 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


49 


his attention to farming. But his mind was so bent on 
becoming a scholar that his mother sent him back to 
school, and afterwards to the University of Cambridge. 

I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton’s 
boyhood. My story would be far too long were I to 
mention all the splendid discoveries which he made after 
he came to be a man. He was the first that found out 
the nature of light ; for, before his day, nobody could 
tell what the sunshine was composed of. You remem- 
ber, I suppose, the story of an apple’s falling on his 
head , 1 and thus leading him to discover the force of 
gravitation, which keeps the heavenly bodies in their 
courses. When he had once got hold of this idea, he 
never permitted his mind to rest until he had searched 
out all the laws by which the planets are guided through 
the sky. This he did as thoroughly as if he had gone 
up among the stars and tracked them in their orbits. 
The boy had found out the mechanism of a windmill ; 
the man explained to his fellow-men the mechanism of 
the universe. 

While making these researches he was accustomed to 

1 The story was told by Catharine Barton, Newton’s niece, to 
the French philosopher Voltaire, and recited that Newton was 
sitting in his garden at Woolsthorpe when the apple fell ; he be- 
gan to think that as the same power' by which the apple fell to 
the ground was not any less apparently at the greatest distance 
from the centre of the earth which we can reach, not at the top of 
a spire nor on a high mountain, it might extend to the moon, 
and retain her in her orbit, in the same manner as it bends into a 
curve a stone, or a cannon-ball when sent in a straight line from 
the surface of the earth. Then if the moon was thus kept in her 
orbit by gravitation to the earth, or in other words, by its attrac- 
tion, it was equally probable, he thought, that the planets were 
kept in their orbits by gravitation toward the sun. 

4 


50 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


spend night after night in a lofty tower, gazing at the 
heavenly bodies through a telescope. His mind was 
lifted far above the things of this world. He may be 
said, indeed, to have spent the greater part of his life in 
worlds that lie thousands and millions of miles away ; 
for where the thoughts and the heart are, there is our 
true existence. 

Did you never hear the story of Newton and his little 
dog Diamond ? One day, when he was fifty years old, 
and had been hard at work more than twenty years 
studying the theory of light, he went out of his chamber, 
leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. On the 
table lay a heap of manuscript papers, containing all the 
discoveries which Newton had made during those twenty 
years. When his master was gone, up rose little Dia- 
mond, jumped upon the table, and overthrew the lighted 
candle. The papers immediately caught fire. 

Just as the destruction was completed, Newton opened 
the chamber door, and perceived that the labors of 
twenty years were reduced to a heap of ashes. There 
stood little Diamond, the author of all the mischief. 
Almost any other man would have sentenced the dog to 
immediate death. But Newton patted him on the head 
with his usual kindness, although grief was at his heart. 

“O Diamond, Diamond,” exclaimed he, “thou little 
knowest the mischief thou hast done ! ” 

This incident affected his health and spirits for some 
time afterwards ; but, from his conduct towards the 
little dog, you may judge what was the sweetness of his 
temper. 

Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired 
great renown, and was made a member of Parliament, 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 


51 


and received the honor of knighthood from the king. 
But he cared little for earthly fame and honors, and felt 
no pride in the vastness of his knowledge. All that he 
had learned only made him feel how little he knew in 
comparison to what remained to be known. 

“ I seem to myself like a child,” observed he, “ play- 
ing on the sea-shore, and picking up here and there a 
curious shell or a pretty pebble, while the boundless 
ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me.” 

At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five years 
old, Sir Isaac Newton died, — or rather, he ceased to 
live on earth. We may he permitted to believe that he 
is still searching out the infinite wisdom and goodness of 
the Creator as earnestly, and with even more success, 
than while his spirit animated a mortal body. He has 
left a fame behind him which will be as endurable as if 
his name were written in letters of light formed by the 
stars upon the midnight sky. 


52 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 

Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and 
a king besides, whose name was Midas ; and he had a 
little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, 
and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely 
forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, 
I choose to call her Marygold. 

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything 
else in the world. He valued his royal crown chiefly 
-because it was composed of that precious metal. If he 
loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one 
little maiden who played so merrily around her father’s 
footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the 
more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, 
foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do 
for this dear child would he to bequeath her the im- 
mensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever 
been heaped together since the world was made. Thus, 
he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one pur- 
pose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the 
gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were 
real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into 
his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him, 
with a hunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to 
say, “ Poh, poh, child ! If these flowers were as golden 
as they look, they would be worth the plucking ! ” 

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely 
possessed of this insane desire for riches, King Midas 
had shown a great taste for flowers. He had planted 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


53 


a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest 
and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. 
These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, 
as lovely, and as fragrant, as when Midas used to pass 
whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their per- 
fume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was only 
to calculate how much the garden would be worth, if 
each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of 
gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite 
of an idle story about his ears, which were said to re- 
semble those of an ass J ), the only music for poor Midas, 
now, was the chink of one coin against another. 

At length (as people always grow more and more 
foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser), 
Midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that 
he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that 
was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass 
a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apart- 
ment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It 
was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole 
— for it was little better than ' a dungeon — Midas be- 
took himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly 
happy. Here, after carefully locking the door, he would 
take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a wash- 
bowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold- 

1 The story went that Pan, the god of shepherds, believed the 
music which he made upon reeds to be better than that which the 
god Apollo made upon his lyre ; he could find no one to agree 
with him except King Midas, and Apollo, to punish Midas, made 
him ridiculous by lengthening his ears till they were as big as 
those of an ass, as if it was the biggest ear that could judge best 
of music, and an ass therefore was the most intelligent of listen- 
ers, when every one knew it to be the stupidest animal. 


54 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the 
room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell 
from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam 
for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine 
without its help. And then would he reckon over the 
coins in the bag ; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came 
down ; sift the gold-dust through his fingers ; look at 
the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the bur- 
nished circumference of the cup, and whisper to him- 
self, “ O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art 
thou ! ” But it was laughable to see how the image of 
his face kept grinning at him, out of the polished sur- 
face of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his foolish 
behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun 
of him. 

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he 
was not yet quite so happy as he might be. The very 
tip-top of enjoyment would never be reached, unless the 
whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be 
filled with yellow metal which should be all his own. 

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as 
you are, that in the old, old times, when King Midas 
was alive, a great many things came to pass, which we 
should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our 
own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great 
many things take place nowadays, which seem not only 
wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times 
would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I re- 
gard our own times as the strangest of the two ; but, 
however that may be, I must go on with my story. 

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one 
day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the 






THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


55 


heaps of gold ; and, looking suddenly up, what should 
he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the 
bright and narrow sunbeam ! It was a young man, with 
a cheerful and ruddy face. Whether it was that the 
imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge over 
everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not 
help fancying that the smile with which the stranger re- 
garded him had a kind of golden radiance in it. Cer- 
tainly, although his figure intercepted the sunshine, there 
was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treas- 
ures than before. Even the remotest corners had their 
share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger 
smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire. 

As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key 
in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly 
break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded 
that his visitor must be something more than mortal. It 
is no matter about telling you who he was. In those 
days, when the earth was comparatively a new affair, it 
was supposed to be often the resort of beings endowed 
with supernatural power, and who used to interest them- 
selves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and chil- 
dren, half playfully and half seriously. Midsus had met 
such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one 
of them again. The stranger’s aspect, indeed, was so 
good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would 
have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any 
mischief. It was far more probable that he came to do 
Midas a favor. And what could that favor be, unless 
to multiply his heaps of treasure ? 

The stranger gazed about the room ; and when his 
lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects 
that were there, he turned again to Midas. 


56 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


" You are a wealthy man, friend Midas ! ” he ob- 
served. “I doubt whether any other four walls, on 
earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to 
pile up in this room.” 

“ I have done pretty well, — pretty well,” answered 
Midas, in a discontented tone. “ But, after all, it is but 
a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my 
whole life to get it together. If one could live a thou- 
sand years, he might have time to grow rich ! ” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed the stranger. “ Then you are 
not satisfied ? ” 

Midas shook his head. 

“ And pray what would satisfy you ? ” asked the stran- 
ger. “ Merely for the curiosity of the thing, I should 
be glad to know.” 

Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment 
that this stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good- 
humored smile, had come hither with both the power 
and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now, 
therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but 
to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly 
impossible, thing it might come into his head to ask. 
So he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped 
up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagina- 
tion, without being able to imagine them big enough. 
At last, a bright idea occurred to King Midas. It 
seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he 
loved so much. 

Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in 
the face. 

“Well, Midas,” observed his visitor, “I see that you 
have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you. 
Tell me your wish.” 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


57 


iC It is only this,” replied Midas. “ I am weary of 
collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and be- 
holding the heap so diminutive, after I have done my 
best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to 
gold ! ” 

The stranger’s smile grew so very broad that it seemed 
to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming 
into a shadowy dell, where the yellow autumnal leaves 
— for so looked the lumps and particles of gold — lie 
strewn in the glow of light. 

“ The Golden Touch ! ” exclaimed he. “ You cer- 
tainly deserve credit, friend Midas, for striking out so 
brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure that this 
will satisfy you ? ” 

“ How could it fail ? ” said Midas. 

“And will you never regret the possession of it?” 

“ What could induce me ? ” asked Midas. “ I ask 
nothing else, to render me perfectly happy.” 

“ Be it as you wish, then,” replied the stranger, wav- 
ing his hand in token of farewell. “To-morrow, at 
sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the Golden 
Touch.” 

The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly 
bright, and Midas involuntarily closed his eyes. On 
opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam 
in the room, and/ all around him, the glistening of the 
precious metal which he had spent his life in hoard- 
ing up. 

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story 
does not say. Asleep or awake, however, his mind was 
probably in the state of a child’s, to whom a beautiful 
new plaything has been promised in the morning. At 


58 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


any rate, clay had hardly peeped over the hills, when 
King Midas was broad awake, and, stretching his arms 
out of bed, began to touch the objects that were within 
reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden 
Touch had really come, according to the stranger’s prom- 
ise. So he laid his finger on a chair by the bedside, and 
on various other things, but was grievously disappointed 
to perceive that they remained of exactly the same sub- 
stance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that 
he had only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else 
that the latter had been making game of him. And 
what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his 
hopes, Midas must content himself with what little gold 
he could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of 
creating it by a touch ! 

All this while, it was only the gray of the morning, 
with but a streak of brightness along the edge of the 
sky, where Midas could not see it. He lay in a very 
disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, 
and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest 
sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceil- 
ing over his head. It seemed to Midas that this bright 
yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way 
on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, 
what was his astonishment and delight, when he found 
that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed 
a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold ! The 
Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam ! 

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran 
about the room, grasping at everything that happened to 
be in his way. He seized one of the bedposts, and it 
became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He pulled 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


59 


aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spec- 
tacle of the wonders which he was performing, and the 
tassel grew heavy in his hand, — a mass of gold. He 
took up a book from the table. At his first touch, it 
assumed the appearance of such a splendidly-bound and 
gilt-edged volume as one often meets with nowadays ; 
but, on running his fingers through the leaves, behold ! 
it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the 
wisdom of the book had grown illegible. He hurriedly 
put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in 
a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flex- 
ibility and softness, although it burdened him a little 
with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which 
little Marygold had hemmed for him. That was like- 
wise gold, with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches 
running all along the border, in gold thread ! 

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not 
quite please King Midas. He would rather that his 
little daughter’s handiwork should have remained just 
the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into 
his hand. 

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a 
trifle. Midas now took his spectacles from his pocket, 
and put them on his nose, in order that he might see 
more distinctly what he was about. In those days, spec- 
tacles for common people had not been invented, but 
were already worn by kings; else, how could Midas 
have had any ? To his great perplexity, however, ex- 
cellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could 
not possibly see through them. But this was the most 
natural thing in the world ; for, on taking them off, the 
transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow 


60 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


metai, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, 
though valuable as gold. It struck Midas as rather in- 
convenient, that, with all his wealth, he could never 
again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spec- 
tacles. 

“ It is no great matter, nevertheless,” said he to 
himself, very philosophically. “We cannot expect any 
great good without its being accompanied with some 
small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the 
sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one’s 
very eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary 
purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough 
to read to me.” 

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune, 
that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to con- 
tain him. He therefore went down stairs, and smiled 
on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became 
a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in 
his descent. He lifted the door-latch (it was brass only 
a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it) 
and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he 
found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, 
and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. 
Very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. 
Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the 
world ; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tran- 
quillity, did these roses seem to be. 

But Midas knew a way to make them far more pre- 
cious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had 
ever been before. So he took great pains in going from 
bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most in- 
defatigably, until every individual flower and bud, and 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


61 


even the worms at the heart of some of them, were 
changed to gold. By the time tills good work was com- 
pleted, King Midas was summoned to breakfast ; and, 
as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, 
he made haste back to the palace. 

What was usually a king’s breakfast in the days of 
Midas, I really do not know, and cannot stop now to in- 
vestigate. To the best of my belief, however, on this 
particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, 
some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh 
boiled eggs, and coffee, for King Midas himself, and a 
bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold. At 
all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king ; 
and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not 
have had a better. 

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. 
Her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself 
at table, awaited the child’s coming, in order to begin 
his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved 
his little daughter, and loved her so much the more this 
morning, on account of the good fortune which had be- 
fallen him. It was not a great while before he heard 
her coming along the passage-way crying bitterly. This 
circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one 
of the cheerfullest little people whom you would see in 
a summer’s day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of tears 
in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her sobs, he 
determined to put little Marygold into better spirits, by 
an agreeable surprise ; so, leaning across the table, he 
touched his daughter’s bowl (which was a China one, 
with pretty figures all around it), and transmuted it to 
gleaming gold. 


62 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened 
the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, 
still sobbing as if her heart would break. 

“ How now, my little lady ! ” cried Midas. “ Pray 
what is the matter with you, this bright morning ? ” 
Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, 
held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which 
Midas had so recently transmuted. 

“ Beautiful ! ” exclaimed her father. “ And what is 
there in this magnificent golden rose to make you 
cry ? ” 

“ Ah, dear father ! ” answered the child, as well as 
her sobs would let her, “it is not beautiful, hut the 
ugliest flower that ever grew ! As soon as I was dressed, 
I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you ; be- 
cause I know you like them, and like them the better 
when gathered by your little daughter. But, oh dear, 
dear me ! What do you think has happened ? Such a 
misfortune ! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so 
sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted 
and spoilt ! They are grown quite yellow, as you see 
this one, and have no longer any fragrance ! What can 
have been the matter with them ? ” 

“Poll, my dear little girl, — pray don’t cry about 
it ! ” said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he 
himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted 
her. “ Sit down and eat your bread and milk ! You 
will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like 
that (which will last hundreds of years) for an ordinary 
one which would wither in a day.” 

“ I don’t care for such roses as this ! ” cried Mary- 
gold, tossing it contemptuously away. “ It has no 
smell, and the hard petals prick my nose ! ” 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


63 


The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied 
with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not 
even notice the wonderful transmutation of her China 
bowl. Perhaps this was all the better ; for Marygold 
was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer 
figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted 
on the circumference of the bowl ; and these ornaments 
were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal. 

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee ; 
and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever 
metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold 
when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it 
was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of 
his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and 
began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his 
treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen would 
no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so 
valuable as golden bowls and coffee-pots. 

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to 
his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that 
the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten 
gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump ! 

“ Ha ! ” exclaimed Midas, rather aghast. 

“ What is the matter, father ? ” asked little Mary- 
gold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her 
eyes. 

“Nothing, child, nothing ! ” said Midas. “ Eat your 
milk, before it gets quite cold.” 

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, 
by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger. 
To his horror, it was immediately transmuted from an 
admirably-fried brook trout into a gold fish, though not 


64 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass 
globes, as ornaments for the parlor. No ; but it was 
really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very 
cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. 
Its little bones were now golden wires ; its fins and tail 
were thin plates of gold ; and there were the marks of 
the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of 
a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very 
pretty piece of work, as you may suppose ; only King 
Midas, just at that moment, would much rather have 
had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valu- 
able imitation of one. 

u I don’t quite see,” thought he to himself, “ how I 
am to get any breakfast ! ” 

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had 
scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, 
though, a moment before, it had been of the whitest 
wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To 
say the truth, if it had really been a hot Indian cake, 
Midas would have prized it a good deal more than he 
now did, when its solidity and increased weight made 
him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in 
despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which im- 
mediately underwent a change similar to those of the 
trout and the cake. The egg, indeed, might have been 
mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in 
the story-book, was in the habit of laying ; but King 
Midas was the only goose that had had anything to do 
with the matter. 

“ Well, this is a quandary ! ” thought he, leaning 
back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little 
Marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 65 

great satisfaction. “ Such a costly breakfast before me, 
and nothing that can be eaten ! ” 

Hoping that, by dint of great despatch, he might 
avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconven- 
ience, King Midas next snatched a hot potato, and at- 
tempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a 
hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. 
He found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of 
solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared 
aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance 
and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright. 

“ Father, dear father ! ” cried little Marygold, who 
was a very affectionate child, “ pray, what is the matter ? 
Have you burnt your mouth ? ” 

“ Ah, dear child,” groaned Midas, dolefully, “ I don’t 
know what is to become of your poor father ! ” 

And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of 
such a pitiable case in all your lives ? Here was liter- 
ally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, 
and its very richness made it absolutely good for noth- 
ing. The poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of 
bread and cup of water, was far better off than King 
Midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight 
in gold. And what was to be done ? Already, at break- 
fast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be less 
so by dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his 
appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of 
the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before 
him ! How many days, think you, would he survive a 
continuance of this rich fare ? 

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he 
began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one de- 
5 


66 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


sirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. 
But this was only a passing thought. So fascinated was 
Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would 
still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so 
paltry a consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what 
a price for one meal’s victuals ! It would have been the 
same as paying millions and millions of money (and as 
many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) 
for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a 
cup of coffee ! 

“ It would be quite too dear,” thought Midas. 

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the per- 
plexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and 
very grievously too. Our pretty Marygold could endure 
it no longer. She sat, a moment, gazing at her father, 
and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find 
out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet 
and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from 
her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affec- 
tionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed 
her. He felt that his little daughter’s love was worth a 
thousand times more than he had gained by the Golden 
Touch. 

“ My precious, precious Marygold ! ” cried he. 

But Marygold made no answer. 

Alas, what had he done ? How fatal was the gift 
which the stranger bestowed ! The moment the lips 
of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had 
taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as 
it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yel- 
low tear-drops congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful 
brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft and tender 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


67 


little form grew hard and inflexible within her father’s 
encircling arms. O, terrible misfortune ! The victim of 
his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a 
human child no longer, but a golden statue ! 

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, 
grief, and pity, hardened into her face. It was the pret- 
tiest and most woful sight that ever mortal saw. All 
the features and tokens of Marygold were there ; even 
the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. 
But, the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater 
was the father’s agony at beholding this golden image, 
which was all that was left him of a daughter. It had 
been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt par- 
ticularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her 
weight in gold. And now the phrase had become lit- 
erally true. And now, at last, when it was too late, he 
felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved 
him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled 
up betwixt the earth and sky ! 

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how 
Midas, in the fulness of all his gratified desires, began 
to wring his hands and bemoan himself ; and how he 
could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look 
away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on 
the image, he could not possibly believe that she was 
changed to gold. But, stealing another glance, there 
was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on 
its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that 
it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften 
the gold, and make it flesh again. This, however, could 
not be. So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to 
wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if 


68 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH . 


the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest 
rose-color to his dear child’s face. 

While he was in tills tumult of despair, he suddenly- 
beheld a stranger, standing near the door. Midas bent 
down his head, without speaking ; for he recognized the 
same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, 
in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this dis- 
astrous faculty of the Golden Touch. The stranger’s 
countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a 
yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little 
Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had 
been transmuted by the touch of Midas. 

“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray how 
do you succeed with the Golden Touch ? ” 

Midas shook his head. 

“ I am very miserable,” said he. 

“Very miserable, indeed !” exclaimed the stranger. 
“ And how happens that ? Have I not faithfully kept 
my promise with you ? Have you not everything that 
your heart desired ? ” 

“ Gold is not everything,” answered Midas. “ And I 
have lost all that my heart really cared for.” 

“ Ah ! So you have made a discovery, since yes- 
terday ? ” observed the stranger. “ Let us see, then. 
Which of these two things do you think is really worth 
the most, — the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of 
clear cold water ? ” 

“ O blessed water ! ” exclaimed Midas. “ It will never 
moisten my parched throat again ! ” 

“ The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “ or a 
crust of bread ? ” 

“ A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “ is worth all 
the gold on earth ! ” 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


69 


“ The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “ or your 
own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving, as she was 
an hour ago ? •” 

“ O my child, my dear child ! ” cried poor Midas 
wringing his hands. “ I would not have given that one 
small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this 
whole big earth into a solid lump of gold ! ” 

u You are wiser than you were, King Midas ! ” said 
the stranger, looking seriously at him. “ Your own 
heart, I perceive, has not been entirely changed from 
flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be 
desperate. But you appear to be still capable of under- 
standing that the commonest things, such as lie within 
everybody’s grasp, are more valuable than the riches 
which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. Tell 
me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this 
Golden Touch ? ” 

“ It is hateful to me ! ” replied Midas. 

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the 
floor ; for it, too, had become gold. Midas shuddered. 

“ Go, then,” said the stranger, “ and plunge into the 
river that glides past the bottom of your garden. Take 
likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over 
any object that you may desire to change back again 
from gold into its former substance. If you do this in 
earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the 
mischief which your avarice has occasioned.” 

King Midas bowed low ; and when he lifted his head, 
the lustrous stranger had vanished. 

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in 
snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me ! it 
was no longer earthen after he touched it), and hasten- 


70 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


ing to the river-side. As he scampered along, and 
forced his way through the shruhhery, it was positively 
marvellous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind 
him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. 
On reaching the river’s brink, he plunged headlong in, 
without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes. 

“ Poof ! poof ! poof ! ” snorted King Midas, as his 
head emerged out of the water. “Well; this is really 
a refreshing bath, and I think it must have quite 
washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling 
my pitcher ! ” 

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened 
his very heart to see it change from gold into the same 
good, honest earthen vessel which it had been before he 
touched it. He was conscious, also, of a change within 
himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to 
have gone out of his bosom. No doubt, his heart had 
been gradually losing its human substance, and trans- 
muting ' itself into insensible metal, hut had now soft- 
ened hack again into flesh. Perceiving a violet, that 
grew on the bank of the river, Midas touched 4 it with 
his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate 
flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing 
a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had, 
therefore, really been removed from him. 

King Midas hastened back to the palace ; and, I sup- 
pose, the servants knew not what to make of it when 
they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home 
an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was 
to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was 
more precious to Midas than an ocean of molten gold 
could have been. The first thing he did, as you need 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 71 

hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the 
golden figure of little Marygold. 

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have 
laughed to see how the rosy color came back to the dear 
child’s cheek ! — and how she began to sneeze and sput- 
ter ! — and how astonished she was to find herself drip- 
ping wet, and her father still throwing more water over 
her ! 

“ Pray do not, dear father ! ” cried she. “ See how 
you have wet my nice frock, which I put on only this 
morning ! ” 

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little 
golden statue ; nor could she remember anything that 
had happened since the moment when she ran with out- 
stretched arms to comfort poor King Midas. 

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his be- 
loved child how very foolish he had been, but contented 
himself with showing how much wiser he had now 
grown. For this purpose, he led little Marygold into 
the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the 
water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect 
that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful 
bloom. There were two circumstances, however, which, 
as long as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of 
the Golden Touch. One was, that the sands of the 
river sparkled like gold ; the other, that little Marygold’s 
hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never ob- 
served in it before she had been transmuted by the effect 
of his kiss. This change of hue was really an improve- 
ment, and made Marygold’s hair richer than in her 
babyhood. 

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and 


72 


THE GOLDEN TOUCH. 


used to trot Marygold’s children on his knee, he was 
fond of telling them this marvellous story, pretty much 
as I have now told it to you. And then would he stroke 
their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, like- 
wise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had inherited 
from their mother. 

“ And, to tell you the truth, my precious little folks,” 
quoth King Midas, diligently trotting the children all 
the while, “ ever since that morning, I have hated the 
very sight of all other gold, save this ! ” 


t 



* 


The rainy twilight of an Autumn day.” — Page 73. 






THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


73 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 

The following story, the simple and domestic inci- 
dents of which may be deemed scarcely worth relating, 
after such a lapse of time, awakened some degree of in- 
terest, a hundred years ago, in a principal seaport of the 
Bay Province . 1 The rainy twilight of an autumn day, 
— a parlor on the second floor of a small house, plainly 
furnished, as beseemed the middling circumstances of 
its inhabitants, yet decorated with little curiosities from 
beyond the sea, and a few delicate specimens of Indian 
manufacture, — these are the only particulars to be pre- 
mised in regard to scene and season. Two young and 
comely women sat together by the fireside, nursing their 
mutual and peculiar sorrows. They were the recent 
brides of two brothers, a sailor and a landsman, and 
two successive days had brought tidings of the death of 
each, by the chances of Canadian warfare and the tem- 
pestuous Atlantic. The universal sympathy excited by „ 
this bereavement drew numerous condoling guests to the 
habitation of the widowed sisters. Several, among whom 
was the minister, had remained till the verge of evening ; 
when, one by one, whispering many comfortable pas- 
sages of Scripture, that were answered by more abundant 

1 The Province of Massachusetts Bay was the title by which 
Massachusetts was known after 1691, when the old charter given 
to the first colonists had been withdrawn and a new one given by 
William and Mary, King and Queen of England. Under the old 
charter the people of Massachusetts had chosen their own gov- 
ernor ; under the new, the Crown appointed the governor, and 
this continued until the Kevolution. 


74 


THE WIVES OF TEE DEAD. 


tears, tliey took their leave, and departed to their own 
happier homes. The mourners, though not insensible 
to the kindness of their friends, had yearned to be left 
alone. United, as they had been, by the relationship of 
the living, and now more closely so by that of the dead, 
each felt as if whatever consolation her grief admitted 
were to be found in the bosom of the other. They 
joined their hearts, and wept together silently. But 
after an hour of such indulgence, one of the sisters, all 
of whose emotions were influenced by her mild, quiet, 
yet not feeble character, began to recollect the precepts 
of resignation and endurance which piety had taught 
her, when she did not think to need them. Her mis- 
fortune, besides, as earliest known, should earliest cease 
to interfere with her regular course of duties ; accord- 
ingly, having placed the table before the fire, and ar- 
ranged a frugal meal, she took the hand of her com- 
panion. 

“ Come, dearest sister ; you have eaten not a morsel 
to-day,” she said. “ Arise, I pray you, and let us ask a 
blessing on that which is provided for us.” 

Her sister-in-law was of a lively and irritable temper- 
ament, and the first pangs of her sorrow had been ex- 
pressed by shrieks and passionate lamentation. She now 
shrunk from Mary’s words, like a wounded sufferer from 
a hand that revives the throb. 

“ There is no blessing left for me, neither will I ask 
it ! ” cried Margaret, with a fresh burst of tears. “ Would 
it were His will that I might never taste food more ! ” 

Yet she trembled at these rebellious expressions, 
almost as soon as they were uttered, and, by degrees, 
Mary succeeded in bringing her sister’s mind nearer to 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


75 


the situation of her own. Time went on, and their usual 
hour of repose arrived. The brothers and their brides, 
entering the married state with no more than the slender 
means which then sanctioned such a step, had confeder- 
ated themselves in one household, with equal rights to 
the parlor, and claiming exclusive privileges in two 
sleeping-rooms contiguous to it. Thither the widowed 
ones retired, after heaping ashes upon the dying embers 
of their fire, and placing a lighted lamp upon the hearth. 
The doors of both chambers were left open, so that a 
part of the interior of each, and the beds with their un- 
closed curtains, were reciprocally visible. Sleep did not 
steal upon the sisters at one and the same time. Mary 
experienced the effect often consequent upon grief qui- 
etly borne, and soon sank into temporary forgetfulness, 
while Margaret became more disturbed and feverish, in 
proportion as the night advanced with its deepest and 
stillest hours. She lay listening to the drops of rain, 
that came down in monotonous succession, unswayed by 
a breath of wind ; and a nervous impulse continually 
caused her to lift her head from the pillow, and gaze into 
Mary’s chamber and the intermediate apartment. The 
cold light of the lamp threw the shadows of the furniture 
up against the wall, stamping them immovably there, 
except when they were shaken by a sudden flicker of 
the flame. Two vacant arm-chairs were in their old 
positions on opposite sides of the hearth, where the 
brothers had been wont to sit in young and laughing 
dignity, as heads of families ; two humbler seats were 
near them, the true thrones of that little empire, whe^e 
Mary and herself had exercised in love a power that love 
had won. The cheerful radiance of the fire had shone 


76 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


upon the happy; circle, and the dead glimmer of the lamp 
might have befitted their reunion now. While Margaret 
groaned in bitterness, she heard a knock at the street- 
door. 

“ How would my heart have leapt at that sound but 
yesterday ! ” thought she, remembering the anxiety with 
which she had long awaited tidings from her husband. 
“ I care not for it now ; let them begone, for I will not 
arise.” 

But even while a sort of childish fretfulness made her 
thus resolve, she was breathing hurriedly, and strain- 
ing her ears to catch a repetition of the summons. It 
is difficult to be convinced of the death of one whom 
we have deemed another self. The knocking was now 
renewed in slow and regular strokes, apparently given 
with the soft end of a doubled fist, and was accompanied 
by words, faintly heard through several thicknesses of 
wall. Margaret looked to her sister’s chamber, and be- 
held her still lying in the depths of sleep. She arose, 
placed her foot upon the floor, and slightly arrayed 
herself, trembling between fear and eagerness as she 
did so. 

“ Heaven help me ! ” sighed she. “ I have nothing 
left to fear, and methinks I am ten times more a coward 
than ever.” 

Seizing the lamp from the hearth, she hastened to the 
window that overlooked the street-door. It was a lattice, 
turning upon hinges ; and having thrown it back, she 
stretched her head a little way into the moist atmos- 
phere. A lantern was reddening the front of the house, 
and melting its light in the neighboring puddles, while a 
deluge of darkness overwhelmed every other object. As 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


77 


the window grated on its hinges, a man in a broad- 
brimmed hat and blanket-coat stepped from under the 
shelter of the projecting story, and looked upward to 
discover whom his application had aroused. Margaret 
knew him as a friendly innkeeper of the town. 

“ What would you have, Goodman 1 Parker ? ” cried 
the widow. 

“ Lackaday, is it you, Mistress Margaret ? ” replied 
the innkeeper. “ I was afraid it might be your sister 
Mary ; for I hate to see a young woman in trouble, when 
I have n’t a word of comfort to whisper her.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, what news do you bring ? ” 
screamed Margaret. 

“ Why, there has been an express 2 3 * through the town 
within this half-hour,” said Goodman Parker, “travelling 
from the eastern jurisdiction 8 with letters for the gov- 
ernor and council. He tarried at my house to refresh 
himself with a drop and a morsel, and I asked him what 
tidino-s on the frontiers. He tells me we had the better 
in the skirmish you wot of, and that thirteen men re- 
ported slain are well and sound, and your husband 
among them. Besides, he is appointed of the escort to 

1 In the days of which this story tells there was a more nice 
distinction of rank among people in New England than now. 
The titles Mr. and Mrs. were given to a few only, who were 
looked up to as the most important persons. In the great body 
of citizens, the titles used were Goodman and Goodwife. 

2 Before the establishment of a regular system of mails, and 
even for some time after, special messengers or expresses were 
despatched with important letters and documents. 

3 The eastern jurisdiction refers to Maine and Nova Scotia, 

which were then included within the territory of the Province. 


78 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


bring the captured Frenchers and Indians 1 home to 
the province jail. I judged you would n’t mind being 
broke of your rest, and so I stepped over to tell you. 
Good-night.” 

So saying, the honest man departed ; and his lantern 2 
gleamed along the street, bringing to view indistinct 
shapes of things, and the fragments of a world, like 
order glimmering through chaos, or memory roaming 
over the past. But Margaret stayed not to watch these 
picturesque effects. Joy flashed into her heart, and 
lighted it up at once ; and breathless, and with winged 
steps, she flew to the bedside of her sister. She paused, 
however, at the door of the chamber, while a thought of 
pain broke in upon her. 

“ Poor Mary ! ” said she to herself. “ Shall I waken 
her, to feel her sorrow sharpened by my happiness ? 
No ; I will keep it within my own bosom till the mor- 
row.” 

She approached the bed, to discover if Mary’s sleep 
were peaceful. Her face was turned partly inward to 
the pillow, and had been hidden there to weep ; but a 
look of motionless contentment was now visible upon it, 
as if her heart like a deep lake had grown calm because 
its dead had sunk down so far within. Happy is it, and t 

1 The exact time of the events of this story is not given ; but 
the wars with the French and Indians continued with occasional 
periods of peace from 1689 to 1763. 

2 The name of the seaport where the scene of this story is laid 
is not given ; it was not Boston, for the messenger is described as 
passing through the town on his way to the seat of government. 
But in Boston, the town did not set up any street lamps until 
1773, although a few years earlier some householders had hung 
out lights. 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


79 


strange, that the lighter sorrows are those from which 
dreams are chiefly fabricated. Margaret shrank from 
disturbing her sister-in-law, and felt as if her own better 
fortune had rendered her involuntarily unfaithful, and 
as if altered and diminished affection must be the con- 
sequence of the disclosure she had to make. With a 
sudden step she turned away. But joy could not long 
he repressed, even by circumstances that would have 
excited heavy grief at another moment. Her mind was 
thronged with delightful thoughts, till sleep stole on, 
and transformed them to visions, more delightful and 
more wild, like the breath of winter (but what a cold 
comparison ! ) working fantastic tracery upon a window 
When the night was far advanced, Mary awoke with 
a sudden start. A vivid dream had latterly involved 
her in its unreal life, of which, however, she could only 
remember that it had been broken in upon at the most 
interesting point. For a little time, slumber hung about 
her like a morning mist, hindering her from perceiving 
the distinct outline of her situation. She listened with 
imperfect consciousness to two or three volleys of a rapid 
and eager knocking ; at first she deemed the noise a 
matter of course, like the breath she drew ; next, it 
appeared a thing in which she, had no concern ; and 
lastly, she became aware that it was a summons neces- 
sary to be obeyed. At the same moment, the pang of 
recollection darted into her mind ; the pall of sleep was 
thrown back from the face of grief ; the dim light of the 
chamber, and the objects therein revealed, had retained 
all her suspended ideas, and restored them as soon as 
she unclosed her eyes. Again there was a quick peal 
upon the street-door. Fearing that her sister would also 


80 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


be disturbed, Mary wrapped herself in a cloak and hood, 
took the lamp from the hearth, and hastened to the win- 
dow. By some accident, it had been left unhasped, and 
yielded easily to her hand. 

“ Who ’s there ? ” asked Mary, trembling as she 
looked forth. 

The storm was over, and the moon was up ; it shone 
upon broken clouds above, and below upon houses black 
with moisture, and upon little lakes of the fallen rain, 
curling into silver beneath the quick enchantment of a 
breeze. A young man in a sailor’s dress, wet as if he 
had come out of the depths of the sea, stood alone under 
the window. Mary recognized him as one whose liveli- 
hood was gained by short voyages along the coast ; nor 
did she forget that, previous to her marriage, he had 
been an unsuccessful wooer of her own. 

“ What do you seek here, Stephen ? ” said she. 

“ Cheer up, Mary, for I seek to comfort you,” an- 
swered the rejected lover. “You must know I got home 
not ten minutes ago, and the first thing my good mother 
told me was the news about your husband. So, without 
saying a word to the old woman, I clapped on my hat, 
and ran out of the house. I could n’t have slept a wink 
before speaking to you, Mary, for the sake of old 
times.” 

“ Stephen, I thought better of you ! ” exclaimed the 
widow, with gushing tears and preparing to close the 
lattice ; for she was no whit inclined to imitate the first 
wife of Zadig. 1 

1 Zaditj ; or, the Book of Fate, is the title of a story by Voltaire, 
in pretended translation from the Arabic. The first wife of 
Zadig was a heartless coquette, and her husband, to try her, 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


81 


u But stop, and hear my story out,” cried the young 
sailor. “ I tell you we spoke a brig yesterday afternoon, 
bound in from Old England. And who do you think I 
saw standing on deck, well and hearty, only a bit thinner 
than he was five months ago ? ” 

Mary leaned from the window, but could not speak. 

“ Why, it was your husband himself,” continued the 
generous seaman. “ He and three others saved them- 
selves on a spar, when the Blessing turned bottom up- 
wards. The brig will beat into the bay by daylight, 
with this wind, and you ’ll see him here to-morrow. 
There ’s the comfort I bring you, Mary, and so good- 
night.” 

He hurried away, while Mary watched him with a 
doubt of waking reality, that seemed stronger or weaker 
as he alternately entered the shade of the houses, or 
emerged into the broad streaks of moonlight. Gradu- 
ally, however, a blessed flood of convection swelled into 
her heart, in strength enough to overwhelm her, had its 
increase been more abrupt. Her first impulse was to 
rouse her sister-in-law, and communicate the new-born 
gladness. She opened the chamber-door, which had 
been closed in the course of the night, though not 
latched, advanced to the bedside, and was about to lay 
her hand upon the slumberer’s shoulder. But then she 
remembered that Margaret would awake to thoughts of 
death and woe, rendered not the less bitter by their con- 
trast with her own felicity. She suffered the rays of 
the lamp to fall upon the unconscious form of the be- 
reaved one. Margaret lay in unquiet sleep, and the 

feigned death. Within twenty-four hours she was able to dry her 
tears and was ready to take a second husband. 

6 


82 


THE WIVES OF THE DEAD. 


drapery was displaced around her ; her young cheek 
was rosy-tinted, and her lips half opened in a vivid 
smile ; an expression of joy, debarred its passage by 
her sealed eyelids, struggled forth like incense from the 
whole countenance. 

“ My poor sister ! you will waken too soon from that 
happy dream,” thought Mary. 

Before retiring, she set down the lamp, and en- 
deavored to arrange the bedclothes so that the chill air 
might not do harm to the feverish slumberer. But her 
hand trembled against Margaret’s neck, a tear also fell 
upon her cheek, and she suddenly awoke. 






















* 


I 




Bright sunshine and Autumnal warmth.” — Page 83. 








PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


83 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 

AN AUTUMN WALK. 

October 7, 1837. — A walk in Northfields 1 in the 
afternoon. Bright sunshine and autumnal warmth, giv- 
ing a sensation quite unlike the same degree of warmth 
in summer. Oaks, — some brown, some reddish, some 
still green ; walnuts, yellow, — fallen leaves and acorns 
lying beneath ; the footsteps crumple them in walking. 
In sunny spots beneath the trees, where green grass is 
overstrewn by the dry, fallen foliage, as I passed, I dis- 
turbed multitudes of grasshoppers basking in the warm 
sunshine ; and they began to hop, hop, hop, pattering on 
the dry leaves like big and heavy drops of a thunder- 
shower. They were invisible till they hopped. Boys 
gathering walnuts. Passed an orchard, where two men 
were gathering the apples. A wagon, with barrels, stood 
among the trees ; the men’s coats flung on the fence ; 
the apples lay in heaps, and each of the men was up in 
a separate tree. They conversed together in loud voices, 
which the air caused to ring still louder, jeering each 
other, boasting of their own feats in shaking down the 
apples. One got into the very top of his tree, and gave 
a long and mighty shake, and the big apples came down 
thump, thump, bushels hitting on the ground at once. 
“ There ! did you ever hear anything like that ? ” cried 
he. This sunny scene was pretty. A horse feeding 
apart, belonging to the wagon. The barberry-bushes 
have some red fruit on them, but they are frost-bitten. 
The rose-bushes have their scarlet hips. 

1 Near Salem, Massachusetts. 


84 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


Distant clumps of trees, now that the variegated fo- 
liage adorns them, have a phantasmagorian, an appa- 
rition-like appearance. They seem to be of some kin- 
dred to the crimson and gold cloud-islands. It would 
not be strange to see phantoms peeping forth from their 
recesses. When the sun was almost below the horizon, 
his rays, gilding the upper branches of a yellow walnut- 
tree, had an airy and beautiful effect, — the gentle con- 
trast between the tint of the yellow in the shade and its 
ethereal gold in the fading sunshine. The woods that 
crown distant uplands were seen to great advantage in 
these last rays, for the sunshine perfectly marked out 
and distinguished every shade of color, varnishing them 
as it were ; while the country round, both hill and plain, 
being in gloomy shadow, the woods looked the brighter 
for it. 

The tide, being high, had flowed almost into the Cold 
Spring, so its small current hardly issued forth from the 
basin. As I approached, two little eels, about as long as 
my finger, and slender in proportion, wriggled out of 
the basin. They had come from the salt water. An 
Indian-corn field, as yet unharvested, — huge, golden 
pumpkins scattered among the hills of corn, — a noble- 
looking fruit. After the sun was down, the sky was 
deeply dyed with a broad sweep of gold, high towards 
the zenith ; not flaming brightly, but of a somewhat 
dusky gold. A piece of water, extending towards the 
west, between high banks, caught the reflection, and ap- 
peared like a sheet of brighter and more glistening gold 
than the sky which made it bright. 

Dandelions and blue flowers are still growing in sunny 
places. Saw in a barn a prodigious treasure of onions 
in their silvery coats, exhaling a penetrating perfume. 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


85 


A STROLL UPON THE BEACH. 

October 16, 1837. — Spent the whole afternoon in a 
ramble to the sea-shore, near Phillips’s Beach. A beau- 
tiful, warm, sunny afternoon, the very pleasantest day, 
probably, that there has been in the whole course of the 
year. People at work, harvesting, without their coats. 
Cocks, with their squad of hens, in the grass-fields, hunt- 
ing grasshoppers, chasing them eagerly with outspread 
wings, appearing to take much interest in the sport, 
apart from the profit. Other hens picking up the ears 
of Indian corn. Grasshoppers, flies, and flying insects 
of all sorts are more abundant in these warm autumnal 
days than I have seen them at any other time. Yellow 
butterflies flutter about in the sunshine, singly, by pairs, 
or more, and are wafted on the gentle gales. The crick- 
ets begin to sing early in the afternoon, and sometimes a 
locust may be heard. In some warm spots, a pleasant 
buzz of many- insects. 

Crossed the fields near Brookhouse’s villa, and came 
upon a long beach, — at least a mile long, I should think, 
— terminated by craggy rocks at either end, and backed 
by a high broken bank, the grassy summit of which, year 
by year, is continually breaking away, and precipitated 
to the bottom. At the foot of the bank, in some parts, 
is a vast number of pebbles and paving-stones, rolled up 
thither by the sea long ago. The beach is of a brown 
sand, with hardly any pebbles intermixed upon it. When 
the tide is part way down, there is a margin of several 
yards from the water’s edge, along the whole mile length 
of the beach, which glistens like a mirror, and reflects 
objects, and shines bright in the sunshine, the sand being 


88 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


wet to that distance from the water. Above this margin 
the sand is not wet, and grows less and less damp the 
farther towards the bank you keep. In some places 
your footstep is perfectly implanted, showing the whole 
shape, and the square toe, and every nail in the heel of 
your boot. Elsewhere, the impression is imperfect, and 
even when you stamp, you cannot imprint the whole. 
As you tread, a dry spot flashes around your step, and 
grows moist as you lift your foot again. Pleasant to 
pass along this extensive walk, watching the surf-wave ; 
— how sometimes it seems to make a feint of breaking, 
but dies away ineffectually, merely kissing the strand ; 
then, after many such abortive efforts, it gathers itself, 
and forms a high wall, and rolls onward, heightening 
and heightening without foam at the summit of the green 
line, and at last throws itself fiercely on the beach, with 
a loud roar, the spray flying above. As you walk along, 
you are preceded by a flock of twenty or thirty beach 
birds , 1 which are seeking, I suppose, for food on the 
margin of the surf, yet seem to be merely sporting, 
chasing the sea as it retires, and running up before the 
impending wave. Sometimes they let it bear them off 
their feet, and float lightly on its breaking summit ; 
sometimes they flutter and seem to rest on the feathery 
spray. They are little birds with gray backs and snow- 
white breasts ; their images may be seen in the wet sand 
almost or quite as distinctly as the reality. Their legs 
are long. As you draw near, they take a flight of a 
score of yards or more, and then recommence their 
dalliance with the surf-wave. You may behold their 
multitudinous little tracks all along your way. Before 
1 Sand-peeps. 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


87 


you reach the end of the beach, you become quite at- 
tached to these little sea-birds, and take much interest 
in their occupations. After passing in one direction, it 
is pleasant then to retrace your footsteps. Your tracks 
being all traceable, you may recall the whole mood and 
occupation of your mind during your first passage. 
Here you turned somewhat aside to pick up a shell that 
you saw nearer the water’s edge. Here you examined 
a long sea-weed, and trailed its length after you for a 
considerable distance. Here the effect of the wide sea 
struck you suddenly. Here you fronted the ocean, look- 
ing at a sail, distant in the sunny blue. Here you looked 
at some plant on the bank. Here some vagary of mind 
seems to have bewildered you ; for your tracks go round 
and round, and interchange each other without visible 
reason. Here you picked up pebbles and skipped them 
upon the water. Here you wrote names and drew faces 
with a razor sea-shell in the sand. 

After leaving the beach, clambered over crags, all 
shattered and tossed about everyhow; in some parts 
curiously worn and hollowed out, almost into caverns. 
The rock, shagged with sea-weed, — in some places, a 
thick carpet of sea-weed laid over the pebbles, into 
which your foot would sink. Deep tanks among these 
rocks, which the sea replenishes at high tide, and then 
leaves the bottom all covered with various, sorts of sea- 
plants, as if it were some sea-monster’s jn’ivate garden. 
I saw a crab in one of them ; five-fingers too. From 
the edge of the rocks, you may look off into deep, deep 
water, even at low tide. Among the rocks, I found a 
great bird, whether a wild-goose, a loon, or an albatross, 
I scarcely know. It was in such a position that I 


88 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


almost fancied it might be asleep, and therefore drew 
near softly, lest it should take flight ; hut it was dead, 
and stirred not when I touched it. Sometimes a dead 
fish was cast up. A ledge of rocks, with a beacon upon 
it, looking like a monument erected to those who have 
perished by shipwreck. The smoked, extempore fire- 
place, where a party cooked their fish. About midway 
on the beach, a fresh-water brooklet flows towards the 
sea. Where it leaves the land, it is quite a rippling 
little current ; but, in flowing across the sand, it grows 
shallower and more shallow, and at last is quite lost, 
and dies in the effort to carry its little tribute to the 
main. 

A VISIT TO SOME LIME-KILNS. 

[North Adams, Mass.~\ September 1 th. — Mr. Leach 
and I took a walk by moonlight last evening, on the road 
that leads over the mountain. Remote from houses, far 
Up on the hill-side, we found a lime-kiln, burning near 
the road ; and, approaching it, a watcher started from 
the ground, where he had been lying at his length. 
There are several of these lime-kilns in this vicinity. 
They are circular, built with stones, like a round tower, 
eighteen or twenty feet high, having a hillock heaped 
around in a great portion of their circumference, so that 
the marble may be brought and thrown in by cart-loads 
at the top. At the bottom there is a doorway, large 
enough to admit a man in a stooping posture. Thus an 
edifice of great solidity is constructed, which will endure 
for centuries, unless needless pains are taken to tear it 
down. There is one on the hill-side, close to the village, 
wherein weeds grow at the bottom, and grass and shrubs 
too are rooted in the interstices of the stones, and its 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 89 

low doorway has a dungeon-like aspect, and we look 
down from the top as into a roofless tower. It appar- 
ently has not been used for many years, and the lime 
and weather-stained fragments of marble are scattered 
about. 

But in the one we saw last night a hard-wood Are 
was burning merrily, beneath the superincumbent mar- 
ble, — the kiln being heaped full ; and shortly after we 
came, the man (a dark, black-bearded figure, in shirt- 
sleeves) opened the iron door, through the chinks of 
which the fire was gleaming, and thrust in huge logs of 
wood, and stirred the immense coals with a long pole, 
and showed us the glowing limestone, — the lower layer 
of it. The heat of the fire was powerful, at the distance 
of several yards from the open door. He talked very 
sensibly with us, being doubtless glad to have two vis- 
itors to vary his solitary night-watch ; for it would not do 
for him to fall asleep, since the fire should be refreshed 
as often as every twenty minutes. We ascended the 
hillock to the top of the kiln, and the marble was red- 
hot, and burning with a bluish, lambent flame, quivering 
up, sometimes nearly a yard high, and resembling the 
flame of anthracite coal, only, the marble being in large 
fragments, the flame was higher. The kiln was perhaps 
six or eight feet across. Four hundred bushels of mar- 
ble were then in a state of combustion. The expense of 
converting this quantity into lime is about fifty dollars, 
and it sells for twenty-five cents per bushel at the kiln. 
We asked the man whether he would run across the top 
of the intensely burning kiln, barefooted, for a thousand 
dollars ; and he said he would for ten. He told us that 
the lime had been burning forty-eight hours, and would 


90 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


be finished in thirty-six more. He liked the business of 
watching it better by night than by day ; because the 
days were often hot, but such a mild and beautiful night 
as the last was just right. Here* a poet might make 
verses with moonlight in them, and a gleam of fierce 
fire-light flickering through. It is a shame to use this 
brilliant, white, almost transparent marble in this way. 
A man said of it, the other day, that into some pieces 
of it, when polished, one could see a good distance ; and 
he instanced a certain grave-stone. 

• DESERTED HOUSES. . 

[Brook Farm.'] October 8, 1841. — In my walk yes- 
terday forenoon I passed an old house which seemed to 
be quite deserted. It was a two-story, wooden house, 
dark and weather-beaten. The front windows, some of 
them, were shattered and open, and others were boarded 
up. Trees and shrubbery were growing neglected, so 
as quite to block up the lower part. There was an aged 
barn near at hand, so ruinous that it had been necessary 
to prop it up. There were two old carts, both of which 
had lost a wheel. Everything was in keeping. At first 
I supposed that there would be no inhabitants in such a 
dilapidated place ; but, passing on, I looked back, and 
saw a decrepit and infirm old man at the angle of the 
house, its fit occupant. The grass, however, was very 
green and beautiful around this dwelling, and, the sun- 
shine falling brightly on it, the whole effect was cheerful 
and pleasant. It seemed as if the world was so glad 
that this desolate old place, where there was never to be 
any more hope and happiness, could not at all lessen the 
general effect of joy. 



Page 86. 


x 


44 In some places your footstep is perfectly implanted *' 




























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91 


I found a small turtle by the roadside, where he had 
crept to warm himself in the genial sunshine. He had a 
sable back, and underneath his shell was yellow and at 
the edges bright scarlet. His head, tail, and claws were 
striped yellow, black, and red. He withdrew himself as 
far as he possibly could into his shell, and absolutely 
refused to peep out, even when I put him into the water. 
Finally, I threw him into a deep pool and left him. 
These mailed gentlemen, from the size of a foot or more 
down to an inch, were very numerous in the spring ; 
and now the smaller kind appear again. 

October 13 th. — I took a long walk this morning, go- 
ing first nearly to Newton, thence nearly to Brighton, 
thence to Jamaica Plain, and thence home. It was a 
fine morning, with a northwest wind ; cool when facing 
the wind, but warm and most genially pleasant in shel- 
tered spots ; and warm enough everywhere while I was 
in motion. I traversed most of the by-ways which of- 
fered themselves to me ; and, passing through one in 
which there was a double line of grass between the 
wheel-tracks and that of the horses’ feet, I came to 
where had once stood a farm-house, which appeared to 
have been recently torn down. Most of the old timber 
and boards had been carted away ; a pile of it, however, 
remained. The cellar of the house was uncovered, and 
beside it stood the base and middle height of the chim- 
ney. The oven, in which household bread had been 
baked for daily food, and puddings and cake and jolly 
pumpkin-pies for festivals, opened its mouth, being de- 
prived of its iron door. The fire-place was close at hand. 
All round the site of the house was a pleasant, sunny, 


92 


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green space, with old fruit-trees in pretty fair condition, 
though aged. There was a barn, also aged, hut in de- 
cent repair ; and a ruinous shed, on the corner of which 
was nailed a boy’s windmill, where it had probably been 
turning and clattering for years together, till now it was 
black with time and weather-stain. It was broken, but 
still it went round whenever the wind stirred. The spot 
was entirely secluded, there being no other house within 
a mile or two. 


WATCHING A SQUIRREL. 

[Brook Farm.~\ October 18, 1841. — In the hollow 
of the woods, yesterday afternoon, I lay a long while 
watching a squirrel, who was capering about among the 
trees over my head (oaks and white-pines, so close to- 
gether that their branches intermingled). The squirrel 
seemed not to approve of my presence, for he frequently 
uttered a sharp, quick, angry noise, like that of a scis- 
sors-grinder’s wheel. Sometimes I could see him sitting 
on an impending bough, with his tail over his back, look- 
ing down pryingly upon me. It seems to be a natural 
posture with him, to sit on his hind legs, holding up his 
fore paws. Anon, with a peculiarly quick start, he 
would scramble along the branch, and be lost to sight in 
another part of the tree, whence his shrill chatter would 
again be heard. Then I would see him rapidly descend- 
ing the trunk, and running along the ground ; and a 
moment afterwards, casting my eye upward, I beheld 
him flitting like a bird among the high limbs at the 
summit, directly above me. Afterwards, he apparently 
became accustomed to my society, and set about some 
business of his own. He came down to the ground, 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 93 

took up a piece of a decayed bough (a heavy burden for 
such a small personage), and, with this in his mouth, 
again climbed up and passed from the branches of one 
tree to those of another, and thus onward and onward 
till he went out of sight. Shortly afterwards he re- 
turned for another burden, and this he repeated several 
times. I suppose he was building a nest, — at least, I 
know not what else could have been his object. Never 
was there such an active, cheerful, choleric, continually- 
in-motion fellow as this little red squirrel, talking to him- 
self, chattering at me, and as sociable in his own person 
as if he had half a dozen companions, instead of being 
alone in the lonesome wood. Indeed, he flitted about 
so quickly, and showed himself in different places so 
suddenly, that I was in some doubt whether there were 
not two or three of them. 

A NAYY IN THE FROG POND. 

[. Boston.~\ June 1, 1842. — One of my chief amuse- 
ments is to see the boys sail their miniature vessels on 
the Frog Pond. There is a great variety of shipping 
owned among the young people, and they appear to have 
a considerable knowledge of the art of managing vessels. 
There is a full-rigged man-of-war, with, I believe, every 
spar, rope, and sail, that sometimes makes its appear- 
ance ; and, when on a voyage across the pond, it so iden- 
tically resembles a great ship, except in size, that it has 
the effect of a picture. All its motions, — its tossing up 
and down on the small waves, and its sinking and rising 
in a calm swell, its heeling to the breeze, — the whole 
effect, in short, is that of a real ship at sea ; while, 
moreover, there is something that kindles the imagina- 


94 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


tion more than the reality would do. If we see a real, 
great ship, the mind grasps and possesses, within its real 
clutch, all that there is of it ; while here the mimic ship 
is the representation of an ideal one, and so gives us a 
more imaginative pleasure. There are many schooners 
that ply to and fro on the pond, and pilot-boats, all per- 
fectly rigged. I saw a race, the other day, between the 
ship above mentioned and a pilot-boat, in which the lat- 
ter came off conqueror. The hoys appear to be well 
acquainted with all the ropes and sails, and can call 
them by their nautical names. One of the owners of 
the vessels remains on one side of the pond, and the 
other on the opposite side, and so they send the little 
hark to and fro, like merchants of different countries, 
consigning their vessels to one another. 

Generally, when any vessel is on the pond, there are 
full-grown spectators, who look on with as much interest 
as the boys themselves. Towards sunset, this is espe- 
cially the case : for then are seen young girls and their 
lovers ; mothers, with their little boys in hand ; school- 
girls, beating hoops round about, and occasionally -run- 
ning to the side of the pond ; rough tars, or perhaps 
masters or young mates of vessels, who make remarks 
about the miniature shipping, and occasionally give pro- 
fessional advice to the navigators ; visitors from the 
country ; gloved and caned young gentlemen ; — in 
short, everybody stops to take a look. In the mean 
time, dogs are continually plunging into the pond, and 
swimming about, with noses pointed upward, and snatch- 
ing at floating chips ; then, emerging, they shake them- 
selves, scattering a horizontal shower on the clean gowns 
of ladies and trousers of gentlemen ; then scamper to 
and fro on the grass, with joyous barks. 


PASSAGES FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


95 


Some boys cast off lines of twine with pin-hooks, and 
perhaps pull out a horned-pout, — that being, I think, 
the only kind of fish that inhabits the Frog Pond. 

The ship-of-war above mentioned is about three feet 
from stem to stern, or possibly a few inches more. 
This, if I mistake not, was the size of a ship-of-the-line 
in the navy of Lilliput. 

A WALK WITH CHILDREN IN THE WOODS. 

\_Lenox , Mass.~\ March 31, 1851. — A walk with 
the children yesterday forenoon. We went through the 
wood, where we found partridge-berries, half hidden 
among the dry, fallen leaves ; thence down to the brook. 
This little brook has not cleansed itself from the dis- 
array of the past autumn ajid winter, and is much em- 
barrassed and choked up with brown leaves, twigs, and 
bits of branches. It rushes along merrily and rapidly, 
gurgling cheerfully, and tumbling over the impediments 
of stones with which the children and I made little 
waterfalls last year. At many spots, there are small 
basins or pools of calmer and smoother depth, — three 
feet, perhaps, in diameter, and a foot or- two deep, — in 
which little fish are already sporting about ; all else- 
where is tumble and gurgle and mimic turbulence. I 
sat on the withered leaves at the foot of a tree, while 
the children played, a little brook being the most fasci- 
nating plaything that a child can have. Una jumped 
to and fro across it ; Julian stood beside a pool, fishing 
with a stick, without hook or line, and wondering that 
he caught nothing. Then he made new waterfalls with 
mighty labor, pulling big stones out of the earth, and 
flinging them into the current. Then they sent branches 


96 


PASSAGES' FROM NOTE-BOOKS. 


of trees, or the outer shells of walnuts, sailing down the 
stream, and watched their passages 'through the intrica- 
cies of the way, — how they were hurried over in a cas- 
cade, hurried dizzily round in a whirlpool, or brought 
quite to a stand-still amongst the collected rubbish. At 
last Julian tumbled into the brook, and was wetted 
through and through, so that we were obliged to come 
home ; he squelching along all the way, with his india- 
rubber shoes full of water. 

There are still patches of snow on the hills ; also in 
the woods, especially on the northern margins. The 
lake is not yet what we may call thawed out, although 
there is a large space of blue water, and the ice is sej)a- 
rated from the shore everywhere, and is soft, water- 
soaked, and crumbly. On favorable slopes and expos- 
ures, the earth begins to look green ; and almost any- 
where, if one looks closely, one sees the greenness of the 
grass, or of little herbage, amidst the brown. Under 
the nut-trees are scattered some of the nuts of last year ; 
the walnuts have lost their virtue, the chestnuts do not 
seem to have much taste, but the butternuts are in no 
manner deteriorated. The warmth of these days has a 
mistiness, and in many respects resembles the Indian 
summer, and is not at all provocative of physical exer- 
tion. Nevertheless, the general impression is of life, 
not death. One feels that a new season has begun. 


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